


Gods in the Chrysalis

by JhanaMay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel, Dean/Cas Big Bang, John Winchester Has Issues, M/M, Musician Castiel, Swimmer Dean Winchester, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 17:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay
Summary: Olympic hopeful Dean Winchester has always felt more at home in the water than he did on land. Pressured by his father to carry on his mother’s dream, Dean’s entire life has revolved around swimming and competing. Everything changes when he sustains a head injury in an accident at the pool and is left unable to swim. The fear of disappointing everyone in his life is heightened when he realizes his love of the water has been replaced by a strange talent for playing the piano. With the help of Castiel, the high-school dropout/weekend musician who runs a local music store, Dean learns to question everything he thought he knew about himself, his family, and his life. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the butterfly calls just the beginning.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> My third year doing DCBB in a row and it almost didn't happen. I kicked around a couple different ideas and nothing really jumped out at me. I've been dabbling in other fandoms for a while and had decided to just focus on them when my friend [destimushi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/) sent me an idea she wanted to see written (if you haven't checked out her DCBB, go do it now! I beta'd it and it's great). It took some poking and prodding, but here we are and I'm really happy with how the story came out.
> 
> Of course, the DCBB is nothing without the fabulous artists behind it. I was lucky enough to be chosen by a great artist (who also happens to be one of my favorite authors). You can find the art for the story on her tumblr here: [violue](http://violue.tumblr.com/post/167230721903/my-art-for-jhanamays-gods-in-the-chrysalis-this)

The duffel bag hits the floor with a thud, and Dean face-plants on the bed before the echo of the sound fades. Bone tired with a weariness that is just as much mental as it is physical, he doesn’t react when a solid weight drops onto the bed, making him bounce.

“Go away, Charlie,” Dean mutters, the intended harshness diluted when the pillow muffles his words.

Charlie sighs and slings one slight arm over his back. Her weight anchors him, leaving him more comfortable than he will ever admit. Though they’ve only known each other for four years, the tiny redhead has become a sister to him. And sometimes she’s just as annoying as he always figured a little sister would be.

“Get up; we’re going out. No training tomorrow and Dorothy got us in at Tonic. We’re not passing up this opportunity just because you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Charlie curls into him, shoving one hand under him and balling her fist in his loose t-shirt.

Dean smashes his face farther in the pillow and takes a deep breath. The fading perfume of the dryer sheets reminds him he hasn’t done a load of wash in a while. Dean hunches his shoulders and rolls to the side, trying to dislodge her. “Not feeling sorry for myself. I fucked up this morning. Tokyo is a pipe dream if I can’t place in the butterfly.”

“You nailed second in freestyle. No one was within even a tenth of a second of your time,” Charlie says and presses in so she’s covering his back. She squeezes him with the arm trapped underneath him. “I know it’s not the butterfly, but it’s still something.”

Dean fights against it for a moment, keeping his entire body rigid, but Charlie just squeezes him tighter. He’s always shocked by the strength in her petite form. Each breath is a struggle until he lets the air rush out of his lungs and the tension bleed out of his body. She rubs her cheek between his shoulder blades, and even through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, the contact is soothing.

They breathe together for a few moments until the tight band of pressure squeezing his lungs eases. Dean’s voice is more choked with emotion than he likes when he speaks. “This can’t be for nothing, Charlie. If I don’t make the National Team next year, I can kiss 2020 goodbye.”

Charlie is quiet for a long time. She knows his fear is realistic. Olympic level swimming is a young person’s sport. Even at twenty-three, Dean is pushing against the upper edges of the average age for a swimmer. Especially one who has never medaled. He’s not Michael Phelps, with years of experience and a string of golds and silvers. Dean’s a nobody from Lawrence, Kansas who has spent his entire life chasing a medal. When the chance to make it a reality presented itself in Rio last year, he’d choked. Fucked up and came home without even a bronze.

At the rate he’s going, he might not even make it to Tokyo. The fear is nowhere near as real for Charlie since she won silver in two different events at her first Olympics. She may not have gold, but at least she isn’t a failure.

Dean’s throat is tight, clogged with all that and more, but he says none of it. He breathes with her, letting the smell of her shampoo comfort him. After a few moments of comfortable silence, she stirs and slips off him. Her hands are warm on his cheeks as she turns his face away from the pillow and captures his gaze. “Not making it to Tokyo wouldn’t be the end of the world.” Charlie’s pale eyes are gentle, but there’s conviction in them.

“Tell that to my dad,” Dean returns with a wet laugh.

“John’s an asshole,” she says in such a dry, matter-of-fact way that his answering laugh is more genuine. Charlie raises her hand to stroke her fingers against his face, the pads scraping across his evening stubble. “You had an off weekend. It happens. Your ranking is fine and you’ve got plenty of time to recoup before the national championships.”

Dean shrugs, the tension spreading back into his shoulders. Indianapolis creeps closer every day, and he isn’t getting any faster. “If you say so.”

Charlie smiles, her red lips quirking up at the corners. “I do. Now, drag that fine ass out of this bed and put on your dancing shoes. I’ve got a lady waiting on me at the club and you need to blow off some steam. No asscrack-of-dawn workout, so I plan to get busy. If you stop being such a Grumpy Gus, maybe you’ll get laid too.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but pushes himself off the bed. Charlie rolls off the side and starts toward their shared bathroom. “Your interest in my sex life is disturbing, Char,” he calls after her, resigned to going out. She’s right, though. Dean hasn’t gotten laid in weeks, and the tension bunches in his spine like a coiled spring. A driving beat and a hard body might be exactly what he needs to put the clusterfuck of his performance at Mesa behind him. Ten weeks of training will put him back on track. Getting out of the house for one night won’t hurt.

He takes a few minutes to dig through his drawers and find something to wear. He settles on tight blue jeans with a soft Led Zeppelin t-shirt that is so worn the material is skirting transparent. Charlie whistles in appreciation when she returns. Her skinny jeans are bright orange, and her aqua top has an obscure Russian quote on it in Cyrillic. Dean only knows what it says because he was there when she bought it.

Charlie closes Dean’s door on the way out. While a closed door won’t keep John from waltzing in whenever he wants, she insists on not giving him an open invitation. Charlie’s bedroom door stands open, separated from his only by the en suite bathroom they share, but John never messes with Charlie. He reserves his meddling for his oldest son.

They spill down the wide, curving stairs to the foyer, and Dean finds it hard to stay negative in the face of Charlie’s enthusiasm. In his more melancholy moods, he’s sure if he hadn’t met her he would have buckled under the pressure by now. Dean likes to believe the universe sent her to Kansas during their sophomore year just for him, but it had more to do with her swimming scholarship. Charlie keeps him sane, keeps him grounded, and keeps his head above water. If she was a guy, he’d marry her to make sure she never leaves him. Best friend will have to be enough insurance.

Charlie’s hand is on the thick bronze handle of the front door when a sound from the front parlor stops them in their tracks. Dean turns to see his father standing in the doorway of his office. “Where are you two going?”

Dean swallows the urge to tell his father it’s none of his business. Even without training the next day, John has his ways of making Dean’s life a living hell. “We’re meeting up with Charlie’s girlfriend,” he mutters. He ignores Charlie’s huff of indignation, whether at him calling Dorothy her girlfriend or because he was vague as a cop out.

John’s brown eyes bore into Dean. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he shakes his head. “Just because I was stupid enough to give you tomorrow off doesn’t mean you should fuck up your training.”

They’ve had this tired argument a hundred times. Dean studies his reflection in the cool marble floor. “I’m not gonna be drinking,” he says, even though it was never a question. Dean hasn’t had alcohol in the five years since campus security busted up a frat party during his freshman year. The county didn’t press charges, but having the campus police call his father to pick him up was worse than a few nights in jail. Even though he’s legal now, escapism isn’t worth the risk of John’s wrath.

“Just remember we’ve got sprints on Monday. I’m not going easy on you on account of whatever dick you let in your pants tonight.” Dean’s face burns hot, the sick shame from that night flooding his veins. He’s always wondered if John was more upset he was sucking some guy’s cock when the cops showed up than he was over the alcohol. John turns and walks back into the office, closing the door before Dean can come up with a good reply.

Charlie grips his arm, her hand cool on his flushed skin, and pulls him around to look at her. “Ignore him, Dean,” she says, her thumb rubbing comforting circles of pressure onto the soft skin inside his wrist. “John can think whatever he wants, but you deserve to go out once in a while. Swimming isn’t your life; it’s just a part of it. You get to be happy too.”

Tears prickle at the corner of Dean’s eyes, but he blinks them away. He’d love to point out the ways she’s wrong, how perfection has been the only option since the day his mother died. Dean had been four years old, and he’d thought she’d live forever. The pain of losing her wasn’t as horrible as the pain of realizing she wasn’t invincible.

He still sneaks into his father’s office every few weeks to run his fingertips over her silver medal in the 100m butterfly from the ‘92 Olympics. Mary never got to win the matching gold, and it’s the one thing Dean can give her. His entire existence has revolved around winning a gold medal since the first time he slid under the water. The chlorine burned his nose and clouded his vision, and he knew he would always have a way to remember her.

“Let’s go,” he snaps, yanking the door open and stomping outside. Happy or not, a heavy beat pounding through his head and a nicely shaped dick fucking his mouth is what he needs tonight. The ragged line between where Dean ends and his father’s dreams begin.

Charlie slides behind the wheel of her powder blue VW Rabbit without a word, but she keeps glancing his way as they make their way downtown. Dean ignores her and turns up the radio, bobbing his head to the classic rock station he’d programmed into the radio he upgraded for her. No matter how many times she deletes it, he adds it back. It’s part of what has made their relationship work for so long.

In an incredible stroke of luck, they snag a parking space just a block away. The club roars with people, a driving beat shaking the floor and walls and reverberating through Dean’s chest as soon as they make it through the doors. Electronica isn’t Dean’s thing, but a beat is a beat, so he’s willing to overlook the lack of guitars once in a while. Lisa is at the bar, her nose ring glinting in the stage strobe lights each time she turns to place a drink on the counter. Dean shifts into an open space and waits. Her face lights up as soon as she sees him.

Lisa dives through the swinging doors and launches herself at him, the soft cloud of her black waves tickling his nose. She’s only a fraction of an inch shorter than him, and his hands land right on her hips when she goes in for a hug. Although Dean goes for guys these days, the aftermath of their short, memorable fling in college mellowed into friendship once the recriminations faded.

Just another casualty of Dean’s quest to make John happy.

“Where the fuck have you been, Winchester?” Lisa demands. “If I wasn’t sure it would have made channel 49 news, I would’ve thought your asshole old man finally drowned you with his bullshit.”

Dean chuckles, stepping back so she can give Charlie a more sedate hug. “Just busy with training and stuff. You know how it is.” Dean’s dedication to his training schedule had been as devastating to their relationship as his conflicted sexuality. And Lisa never liked sharing him.

Lisa grimaces. The old wound may have scabbed over, but it's still raw even after four years. “Do I ever,” she responds with none of the malice that had characterized their interactions in the months after the break-up. She turns to Charlie with a wink. “I saw your lady friend over by the stage. You want a drink or you gonna go find her?”

“Malibu and sprite,” Charlie says without hesitating, then adds with an exaggerated eye roll, “and you can put his water on my tab.”

Lisa slides back behind the bar and makes Charlie’s drink with quick, practiced movements. She hands it across the counter and pulls a bottle of water from the mini-fridge under the bar. “On the house,” she says, handing the bottle to Dean with a smirk. Another long-running joke that isn’t as funny now as it was two years ago. “How about you and Dorothy wait until you get home before you consummate your reunion? Four different patrons complained over whatever kinky shit you guys were up to in the women’s bathroom last time.”

Charlie doesn’t look the slightest bit cowed. She raises her glass to Lisa in salute with one hand and wraps the other around Dean’s bicep. “Totally worth it,” she says with a bright grin. “If you knew the things she can do with her tongue, you’d—”

Lisa holds up her hand with a bark of laughter. “I think I get the idea.”

Although he’s got at least sixty pounds on her and could plant himself like a tree if he wanted to, Dean lets Charlie pull him into the crowd. He glimpses Dorothy’s profile, her brown hair twisted into a low bun, when they’re a third of the way to the stage. She’s got one hand pressed to the speakers beside the stage and the other twirls in the air, weaving a complicated pattern following the rhythm of her swaying hips. Dorothy looks blissed out, but that’s her default look at the club.

Dean doesn’t understand Charlie and Dorothy’s relationship, but he’s not exactly an expert on the subject. Dorothy’s husband spins the turntables on the stage, headphones pressed to one ear and his pale blue hair swinging over his left eye when he bobs his head. When they’re in town, which only happens once or twice each month, Charlie and Dorothy hook up. Charlie has told Dean Chester is cool with it and even watches from a chair positioned in the corner of their bedroom sometimes. Dean isn’t judging, but if he is ever lucky enough to find someone, he knows he won’t want to share them.

Dorothy’s expression changes—slitted eyes going wide—as they approach, and a wide grin spreads across her face. “You made it,’ she exclaims, tugging Charlie in for a wet, dirty kiss. Dean looks away, cheeks burning. He’s not a prude, but watching Charlie make out with Dorothy is as uncomfortable as watching his brother have sex would be. He and Sam may be close, but Dean draws the line there. Dean clears his throat when Charlie snakes her hand around Dorothy’s neck to pull her closer, and Charlie glances up at him with a smirk.

“Good to see you, Dean,” Dorothy yells over the pounding beat shaking the air around the speakers. She keeps one arm around Charlie’s waist, pinning the smaller woman to her side.

Several dancers bump into Dean’s back, sending him stumbling forward before he catches his balance. “You too, Dorothy. Good turn out.”

Dorothy bobs her head in agreement, but she's already tuning him out in favor of saying something into Charlie’s ear. Charlie gives her a dirty smile, and Dean figures it’s time to make himself scarce. “Have a good night,” he calls over the music. “I’ll find my own way home.” Even if he doesn’t leave with anyone, a cab back to the house will be worth it.

The two women wave him away, lost in each other. Dean melts into the crowd and lets the flow of bodies jostle him to a deserted spot toward the middle. The heavy bass overlaying the driving electronic sound mimics rock music well enough that Dean can lose himself in it when he closes his eyes.

Vibrations move from the floor up through the soles of his high-tops and reverberate in his chest. Letting himself move with the music was easier when he had a few beers to loosen his hips. It takes longer without the aide, but the music eventually shakes loose the tension he’s been carrying since they left Mesa. One song flows into the next, the rhythms grinding with racing beats and swaying with slower melodies.

A few people, both men and women, flow into his space. They make eye contact, asking permission to join him. Dean gives a small smile and looks away every time. It’s early yet and getting lost in the press of bodies is nice. He’s not Dean Winchester, Olympic hopeful. He’s just a guy looking for a connection, a way to ground himself in his body. Everyone else in the club wants the same thing. The anonymity is liberating.

A few slower songs blend and then the bass booms again. Dean is so caught up in the electric tingle of the music on his skin he barely notices strong hands grip his hips and pull him backward. The hard line of the guy’s cock presses against Dean’s ass as he grinds against Dean’s backside. Dean lets himself sway with the man’s body, pressing his hips backward then shifting away to lean back so his shoulders rest against the guy’s chest. He twists and looks up, chin catching against the rasp of stubble on the man’s strong, square jaw.

The guy stares back at Dean with dark, hooded eyes, his shoulder-length hair—dyed in bright splotches of color from the stage lights—tucked behind his ears. Of everyone who tried to catch Dean’s eye tonight, he’s the best looking. Dean learned long ago to quit while he’s ahead.

Dean closes his eyes again and lets the man move him where and how he wants. He turns Dean so they’re facing, and Dean loops his arms around the man’s neck. Dean falls back into the music, letting it vibrate through his bones. A harsh tug on his ass pulls him in tighter, and he gasps at the friction of the man’s dick rubbing against his through their clothes. The man leans in, but Dean beats him to it, and their mouths meet in a wet tangle. Dean’s cock twitches, aching to escape the confines of his jeans. When they pull apart, Dean’s breath hitches in his throat.

“You want to get out of here?” the man asks, his lips hot and wet against Dean’s ear. His hands shift up to slip under Dean’s shirt, and the press of hot, calloused skin on Dean’s back shoots a fresh wave of desire through him.

Dean nods, a frisson of unease skittering through him. What should be easy, something he’s done dozens of times, still paralyzes him with fear. He’s no longer an eighteen-year-old kid getting caught with his lips wrapped around another guy’s cock, but it feels that way. One wrong step and he’ll screw up his entire career, and his grandparents’ money will be meaningless. The Campbell’s have enough money to have a pool named after them, but even they can’t close the closet door after it’s been opened. When scandal rocked the Summer Games last year, Dean realized the world might say it’s ready for queer athletes to be out and proud, but reality is much starker.

The guy pulls back at Dean’s hesitation. “If you’re not down with it—”

“I’m down,” Dean blurts. He moves in and captures the guy’s full lips in a slick kiss. Dean licks his lips when they break apart, tasting whatever sweet, bitter alcohol the man had been drinking. “I don’t have a car, so—”

“I live right around the block.”

Dean smirks and grabs the guy’s hand as he weaves through the throng of people. “Perfect.”


	2. Chapter Two

The sleek red sports car pulls up the driveway and stops at the front door. Before Dean gets out, he hooks one hand around Chad’s neck—fingers tangling in his long hair—and leans in for a final kiss. When Chad lunges forward, trying to go for more than Dean had offered, Dean pulls away and gives him a crooked grin. “I had a good time last night,” he says to soften the blow.

Chad’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “Me too. Call me sometime.” He slips in another soft kiss before Dean pushes the door open.

“Yeah, definitely.” Dean closes the door behind himself and waves through the open window. The driveway curves near the road, so he can only watch the car for a few seconds before it disappears from sight. As soon as it’s gone, he unlocks his phone and deletes the number they had exchanged during the drive. Dean’s body is loose, with a slight ache in his muscles from holding Chad up against the wall while he fucked into him. It tingles in the best way, but not enough to justify the distraction. Nationals is in ten weeks, and after placing in the top three in only one of his events this weekend, he needs to bring his A-game.

Dean hums under his breath as he pushes open the door. Instead of heading straight up to the suite he shares with Charlie, he turns toward the kitchen. The house is quiet, fooling him into thinking his father isn’t home, but he finds John sitting at the counter.

“Discreet isn’t your thing, is it, boy?” John says, sparing Dean a glance before returning his attention to the newspaper.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Dean walks past John to pour himself a cup of decaf coffee. He stirs in a half teaspoon of sugar and sets it on the counter to pull out eggs and milk. There are only six left in the carton. When they go through a dozen eggs every day, keeping them stocked is a challenge.

“Did you have to get dropped off right out front?” John goads without looking up.

Dean turns on the burner under the pan they keep on the stove and cracks the six eggs into a bowl. He whisks them with a splash of milk and a dash of pepper, rolling his eyes the whole time. The house sits so far back on their three acres no one would see Dean fuck Chad on the front steps. Arguing with John isn’t worth it though. While John can’t do much to him today, one wrong word and he will torture Dean tomorrow.

John being his coach isn’t the perk most people think.

The eggs jump with a wet pop when he tips them into the pan. They curl up with a perfect film when he runs the spatula across the bottom. Dean leaves them to cook and crosses in front of John to get the loaf of stone ground wheat bread from the far side of the island. Before he can reach the bread, John slams his hand on the marble to block Dean’s way. “You could at least have a little respect.”

“Did you want me to bring him here?” Dean brushes past John’s outstretched arm and snatches the paper sleeve of bread. “We could have fucked right there where you have your coffee.”

Dean regrets the words at once. So much for keeping his cool, but John has a way of pushing his buttons worse than any other person in the world. Dean cuts off two thick slices and slides them into the toaster before he risks a glance at his father.

John’s face is red, edging toward purple, and he snaps the paper closed with a loud thwack before shoving his stool away from the counter. “You’re a disgrace. Your mother—”

“Don’t,” Dean says, his voice low and calm despite the pain in his chest. “Don’t bring her into this. You made it perfectly fucking clear you didn’t want to see what I was doing, so you don’t get to throw her in my face. If you ever mention her again, I’ll bring guys home and blow them on the stairs in the foyer.”

John slams the stool against the island, and it rocks precariously for a moment before settling. “Don’t forget you have the talk with the swim club this afternoon,” he says, shoving the paper into the recycling bin. “Make sure you wear something to cover that hickey. The kids don’t need to see how Lawrence’s golden boy gets his kicks.” John stalks out of the kitchen, and the front door slams before Dean can plan a response.

The silence in the aftermath is deafening. Dean stares after John until the toast pops and breaks him out of it. Swallowing his frustration, Dean turns and stirs the eggs, now brown and dry on the edges. He dumps them onto a plate with a sigh and adds a smear of butter to his toast before settling onto the stool John abandoned with his lukewarm coffee.

Dean can’t know how Mary Campbell Winchester would have reacted to his sexuality. Based on his few hazy memories of his mom, though, Dean wants to believe she would have still loved him. She certainly wouldn’t have approved of what John did when campus security caught Dean at that frat party. He didn’t even know the guy’s last name, but Dean was still mortified when John offered him five hundred dollars to never speak to Dean again. The bribe was more than effective, and Dean learned the value of discretion.

The eggs taste like sawdust, but he chokes them down. Dean follows with both pieces of toast and swallows them with a mouthful of coffee. Although he burns over four thousand calories in the pool, the extra fuel isn’t as important today. He finishes the meal out of habit and is rinsing his dishes in the sink when Charlie comes into the kitchen.

“Was that your dad slamming out of here?” she asks with a yawn, stretching her arms over her head and bending side to side.

Dean nods and turns away to load the dishwasher. “Didn’t think I’d see you this morning,” he says as a distraction. “Figured you’d stay with Dorothy and Chester since you’re off the hook for today.”

Charlie pours herself a coffee in the big Star Wars mug she bought in Rio last year. While Dean was in the hotel room stressing over his technique, Charlie had gone sightseeing with half the German team and a few Swedes. She dumps a long stream of sugar from the dispenser without measuring it and adds more flavored creamer. Dean’s teeth hurt just watching her. Every time John criticizes her diet, Charlie smiles sweetly and nods. Then she hits the Dairy Queen drive through on the way home.

“Nah, they’ve got a show in Omaha tonight, so they had to be on the road early.” Charlie pulls two bananas from the bunch in the basket next to the fridge and jumps onto the counter beside the sink. Her feet tap out a pattern on the lower cupboard. “And don’t change the subject. What’s got his panties in a bunch?”

“I finished the eggs. Someone needs to pick up more unless you want chicken breasts for breakfast tomorrow. We could get them when we go grocery shopping then.” Dean skirts around her to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge.

“Dean,” she retorts, lifting her legs to put her slippered feet on the island, trapping him. Charlie raises one eyebrow and glares.

Dean sighs and perches across from her. “A guy from the club dropped me off this morning.” He twists open the bottle and takes a long swallow before looking up to meet her eyes. “I should have made him drop me off on the street.”

Charlie catches one of Dean’s ankles between her feet and squeezes him. “You shouldn’t have to sneak into your own house. John needs to get over himself.” While John trains Charlie too, she has no hero worship. Everyone knows Charlie hates John, but as long as she does what he says and places in meets with minimal insubordination, John ignores it.

“It wouldn’t kill me to be more discreet.”

Charlie snorts. “Frak, Dean. If you were any more discreet, I don’t think even you’d know you got laid. You still have to live your life even if John is a homophobe.”

“He’s not—”

“Bullshit.” Charlie swings her legs up to rest her feet on Dean’s lap. “We both know he’d look the other way if you screwed Lisa in the front lobby of the pool. He’s your dad and your coach, but he doesn’t get to dictate your whole life.”

Dean shoves her feet off his lap and jumps off the counter with a huff. This tired argument won’t get resolved soon. In the meantime, he’s got obligations to meet as part of his agreement for subsidy by the National Team. Although his grandparents—his mom’s parents—would foot the bill for his training and competition fees without complaint, three thousand dollars every month comes in handy. It’s enough to convince him he’s contributing to the household.

Charlie ranks in the bottom eight, so she gets less than Dean, but they still make enough to buy their own groceries and pay Dean’s grandparents rent. John may act like the king of this castle, but the Campbells are the ones putting the lavish roof over their heads. Sometimes Dean misses the little ranch they had before Mary died, but being able to walk to the pool is worth losing the place where they made their memories.

“I gotta go. I got roped into giving a talk to the middle grades club,” Dean says, hooking the empty bottle at the garbage can and fist pumping when it goes in.

“At least it isn’t the primaries. It makes me sad to see the little ones being pushed so hard. Four and five is too young to know you want to be a swimmer.”

Dean quirks his lips. “I was four when I started.”

“Exactly.” They leave the kitchen together and climb the back stairs. “This conversation isn’t over,” she adds when they reach the top. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it.”

“It is for now.”

“Only because I want a nap. You sure you don’t need me to come with you?”

Dean pauses in his doorway and shakes his head. “I got it. You can drive for groceries tomorrow.”

“Roger that.” Charlie snaps a half-assed salute and disappears into her bedroom.

Hot water soothes the aches in Dean’s muscles, but it does nothing for the tightness in his chest. He picks out a shirt with a high enough collar to hide the purple splotch on his collarbone. Chad was more aggressive than Dean prefers, but it was nice to let go. He feels a slight twinge of regret for deleting the other man’s number before he pushes it away. John thought nothing of paying a random frat boy to stay away from Dean. He can’t imagine what John would do to sabotage an actual relationship.

Dean makes it downstairs with plenty of time. They’re only a few blocks from the Mary Campbell Memorial Aquatic Center. Built in 1966, Dean’s grandparents bought it after Mary’s death and refurbished the pool from a basic recreational size into an Olympic training facility. Besides the main pool, the building houses two smaller lap pools and a small therapy pool. An aquatic training supply shop, an occupational/physical therapist, and a sports medicine clinic take up the rest of the space. The portrait in the lobby identifies Mary as a Campbell even though she’d been a Winchester for five years by the time of her death. It’s a constant source of irritation for John. Despite the support the family—and Charlie by extension—has received from Dean’s grandparents, John is quick to share it when Samuel and Deanna Campbell aren’t around.

Rather than drive, Dean heads to the pool on foot. The new Mazda M-5 the Campbells gave him when he made the Olympic team is gorgeous, but it’s not worth pulling it out to go three blocks. It would be different if he could take John’s car. He passes by the black ‘67 Impala sitting under the portico alongside the two-story house. Dean runs his hand across the quarter panel, fingertips grazing the clear coat. John and Mary bought the car just after their wedding and it is John’s pride and joy. Dean would give anything to have that car. John promised to give it to him if he wins a gold medal, but that’s looking more and more like an impossible dream.

Dean strolls through the front doors twenty minutes before his scheduled appearance. The promotional appearances are a pain in the ass, but Dean doesn’t mind talking to the kids as much. He remembers meeting Tom Dolan when he was seven, and he’d been awestruck for days.

“Didn’t know we’d be seeing you today, Dean,” Gwen calls from the front desk as the heavy glass door swings shut behind him. She’s one of the many Campbell cousins—the niece of a great uncle by marriage, or something—who keep the pool running. Dean remembers pulling her pigtails when she was five or six. They’re far enough removed for it to only be a little weird for Dean to appreciate the way the Dolfin t-shirt pulls tight over her breasts.

“No training today, but I’ve got a meet and greet with the kids at one,” Dean says with a wave. He adds with a teasing smirk, “Gotta let them bask in the presence of greatness.”

Gwen snorts. “Huh. They should have sent Charlie, then.”

The door clicks open when he presses his keycard to the plate, and Dean flips her off with a grin as he passes through. He navigates hallways that he knows better than the layout of his own house and slips through heavy metal doors. Garth, the youngest of the center’s three full-time swim instructors, is corralling the kids on the deck of the Olympic-sized pool. Although John only trains a handful of other older teens and adults besides Dean and Charlie, he gets called in to cover for the other instructors sometimes. Given John’s way with kids, though, that’s an event everyone tries to avoid.

“Hey, man,” Garth greets as Dean walks along the bleachers. The humidity clings to the air, coating Dean’s nose and throat with the thick chlorine smell of the pool. Dean never gets sick of it

“Hey, Garth. Looks like a good group today.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Garth gushes. Everyone knows the slender man for his bubbling enthusiasm, which makes him perfect for this group. At ages eight to eleven, these kids have been swimming long enough the novelty has worn off, but they lack the commitment of the older students. They’re not ready to train for competition.

“Do you want to lead with me or let them get wet first?”

“Let’s start with you,” Garth suggests. “Once they’re in the pool, it’s impossible to get their attention.” He calls the class to order and the children, five girls and three boys, gather on the bottom two rows of the bleachers. Several of the parents sit in the higher rows. “We’ve got a special guest today,” he says, motioning toward Dean.

Dean gives a wave and his brightest smile. “Hey, guys. Who knows what the Olympic games are?” Five hands shoot up, and they’re off.

The basic presentation doesn’t change much, but Dean tweaks it for the age group. He tells them his mother was an Olympic silver medalist before she had Dean and points out his grandparents named the pool after her. “Did any of you see her picture when you came in?”

A blond girl with her hair slicked back into a tight ponytail puts up her hand. “She’s pretty.” She gives Dean a wide smile. “Did she teach you how to swim?”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat and smiles with a small nod. “I’m sure she did, but I don’t remember it. She died when I was little. My dad was a swimmer, too. He’s still my coach. You guys might have seen him around the pool during your lessons. Tall guy with a black beard.”

“He’s scary,” a dark-haired boy at the end of the row says. He slaps his hand over his mouth when a woman at the top hisses his name. “Sorry,” Justin blurts. “I’m sure he’s a nice dad, but he yells a lot.”

“It’s okay.” Dean chuckles. “He is scary sometimes, but he taught me everything I know about swimming.”

“Do you have a medal?” another boy with short cropped red hair asks. A sunburst of freckles covers his cheeks.

“No medals. I swam in the Olympics in 2016, but I didn’t place. I’m training for the 2020 Olympics now.”

Once they’re warmed up, the kids get excited. They call out questions so fast Garth has to remind them to put their hands up several times. Dean describes swimming for several hours, twice every day, and the kids agree waking up at four a.m. for training sounds horrible. He finishes by answering questions about his experience at the Olympics.

After a while, Dean sees Garth tap his watch. “How many of you want to swim professionally?” he asks. Only two kids raise their hands—the blond girl and Justin—while the others groan and roll their eyes. “It’s an amazing experience, and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else, but it is hard work. If you practice, come to your lessons, and listen to what Mr. Garth tells you, though, you’ll be on your way.”

Garth takes the opening and leads the kids in thanking Dean for coming to talk to them. Rather than leaving, Dean settles on the bench near the locker room entrance and watches Garth review the basic strokes. Most are sloppy, their young bodies lacking the muscle memory Dean has developed, but the two who had shown interest in competitive swimming are noticeably better. The girl has both speed and stamina, and her breaststroke is nearly picture perfect for her age and body type.

Justin, though, struggles with both the breaststroke and backstroke. Every time Garth corrects him, the slender boy stops and gives Garth his full attention. Amazing for a kid who can’t be over ten. Justin cocks his head to the side and watches Garth show him the tweaks, his face scrunched up in thought. Each successive pass improves.

Two of the younger girls in the first row pull Dean’s attention away from Justin. They both clearly enjoy swimming, but the taller brunette needs to pay attention to the angle her arms hit the water or she’ll pull a muscle. Dean points it out to Garth, who says he’s been trying to correct the habit for weeks. He’s walking back to the bleachers when a hushed voice, clipped in anger, draws his attention.

Justin and the woman who must be his mother huddle alongside the pool. “If you don’t listen, you won’t get better,” she barks, her volume spiking.

The boy’s slender shoulders slump inward, and he shrugs, radiating defeat. “I’m trying, mom. I don’t get what he means.”

“Because you’re not paying attention,” she snaps, closing her hand around his thin bicep and shaking him. “I’m not shelling out four hundred dollars for you to goof off. If you’re not taking this seriously, you can quit.”

Tears well up at the corners of his eyes and his voice shakes. “Mom, please. I don’t want to quit. I promise I’ll try harder.”

Bile rises in Dean’s throat, the echo of John’s words in his ears. He remembers hundreds of similar tirades at the edge of this pool. The sick dread of disappointing his father—dishonoring his mother’s memory—warring with Dean’s heartfelt love of swimming. Dean never feels as close to his mother as he does when his muscles ache from hours in the water. Everything is silent inside his head, just the steady splash of the water and the sound of his own rhythmic breathing. The memory of her voice has faded, but at the end of a long set, he swears he can hear her singing her favorite Beatles song.

Without saying goodbye to Garth, Dean shoves the heavy door open and escapes.


	3. Chapter Three

The alarm blares Black Sabbath at four a.m., and Dean slaps the flat of his hand on his cell phone. He should get up—they have thirty minutes to make breakfast before he and Charlie need to be at the pool—but he doesn’t. The ceiling is cream, inching toward beige, but that doesn’t stop Dean from making another morning study of it. These moments, when he’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling, are often the only peaceful ones he gets in a long hectic day.

A loud banging on the door makes him jump even though it happens the same way every morning. “I’ll start breakfast,” Charlie calls through the door. “If I don’t hear you in the shower when I get to the kitchen, I’m coming back with a bowl of ice water.”

Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath, but he gets up. He showers with his usual efficiency—using conditioner to guard against the chlorine—and walks into the kitchen as Charlie plates the crispy strips of bacon and shredded chicken breasts sprinkled with cheese. The blender whirs, and Dean grabs two clean bottles from the dish rack to fill with Charlie’s protein-smoothie-concoction-of-the-day. He stuffs them in his duffel as Charlie pulls out the chairs at the table and slumps into one. Charlie refuses to eat at the island. Dean has never understood, but he suspects it has something to do with the parents she never mentions.

The vivacious redhead has become such an essential part of Dean’s life, it’s hard to remember when it was just Dean, Sam, and John. Since they were joined at the hip during college, John supplemented Charlie’s training along with Dean’s, and it stuck after they graduated. Dean is sure John was hoping they would end up together. Charlie crushed that dream when she introduced John to her girlfriend, and he never looked at her the same. Hell, he probably blames her for infecting Dean with her gayness or something.

“Are we going to Dillon’s after morning session?” Charlie asks with her mouth still full of chicken. She laughs and tries to bite his fingers when Dean reaches over and pinches her lips closed then chews dramatically.

“You’re disgusting,” Dean says after swallowing his mouthful of food. “And yes, that’s what I figured. We’re down to three chicken breasts, no eggs, and the bananas are gross.”

“The bananas _are_ gross,” Charlie agrees, sipping her chamomile tea to wash down her food before taking another bite. “Let’s run out to Whole Foods in Olathe since we don’t have to be back until three. They’ve got that pre-made quinoa and red beet salad.”

“Fine, but no pastries. Dad bitched for a week when he saw them last time.” John expects them to follow the plan the nutritionist laid out and cheese danishes with honeyed walnuts are not on the list. Dean finishes his last piece of bacon and rinses his plate in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher, making a mental note to run the load after dinner.

“Your dad sucks,” she says, adding her plate and mug beside his. “We’ll just get two and eat them on the way back. He’ll never know.”

Dean shakes his head and grabs his duffel. Charlie follows him out. Although they could walk, they take Charlie’s car since they’ll need it to get groceries. They’re seven minutes early, but John is standing next to the pool looking at his watch when they walk in. “About time,” he grumbles.

Charlie looks up at the clock on the wall and rolls her eyes.

“Late start,” Dean says. Getting John riled up right before training is a recipe for disaster. Charlie rolls her eyes even more dramatically, shouldering past him to the locker room without a word.

“Garth said everything went okay with the kids yesterday,” John says, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Tension radiates across Dean’s shoulders. As long as Dean fulfills his obligations, the money keeps coming in, but John still checks up on him. “It was fine,” he mutters, remembering the sick churning in his stomach at the way Justin’s mom berated the boy. John’s reaction would have been very different from Dean’s. Dean walks around him before John can continue.

The drills are brutal, likely as punishment for John giving them yesterday off, but Dean doesn’t complain. Even after 1500 meters… 3000 meters… 4500 meters, and his shoulders are aching, muscles cramping in his legs from the strain of kicking. Toward the end, Charlie slacks off, her pace slowing and her strokes not as crisp, but John ignores it. He barks orders at Dean over the churning water instead.

“Hold your fucking hips still, boy,” he shouts, and Dean tries to tune him out. His hips are stable even with the power of his kicks and his arms cut through the water as he propels himself forward. Even when the water covers his head, flooding his ears and drowning out the world above the surface, John’s words are audible. “Your arms are spaghetti. If you can’t hold your form, maybe you need to spend more time in the gym. One day off is enough to make you lazy.”

“He can’t hold the form because he’s been swimming for three hours. Of course, his arms are spaghetti,” Charlie says, her voice edging into anger that she rarely shows.

“The workout makes the champion,” John responds, his voice low and angry. Dean slows to a lazy glide and instead of flipping to push off the wall, he treads water. John’s eyes narrow as he stares at Charlie, who floats on her back in her lane. “If he hasn’t got the drive to be an Olympic athlete—”

“I can finish the laps. No problem.” Dean has heard this lecture a million times. The reasons Mary would be disappointed, why John should just give up, why Dean will never make it back to the Olympics let alone medal. He doesn’t need a reminder. “Am I dropping my right shoulder too far?” he adds as soon as John returns his attention to him. The quickest way to placate John is to ask a question that will spark a lecture. One of these days, Charlie will push back too hard, and John will send her away. Dean would never survive.

John takes the bait and runs through a variety of techniques—which Dean already uses—but it allows him to make it through the final laps without more threats. When John finally calls time, Dean crawls out of the pool and stretches. Muscles burn across his shoulders, down his arms, and through his thighs and ass. Maybe John is right, and the taper for the meet and the day off yesterday were enough to lower his stamina.

In the locker room, Dean strips out of his suit and takes a quick shower to wash the chlorine away. He adds another leave-in conditioner before toweling his hair and tugs on sweats and a black University of Kansas swim team hoodie. Kansas in April is still chilly enough that wet hair is uncomfortable, but using a hairdryer just turns it to straw. He’s too lazy to wait around for it to dry. Instead, he pulls up his hood and walks out to meet Charlie in the lobby. She’s sporting the same look, except her hoodie is neon green with a cartoon Yoda wearing swim goggles on the front.

Charlie is silent as they walk out, but she keeps giving him side-eyed looks. He waits until she’s pulling out of the lot. “Don’t say it,” he cautions, taking the smoothies out of his bag and putting hers in the cup holder before taking a sip. Charlie’s gotten good at making them palatable.

“Say what?” she says, saccharine in her voice and her eyes pinned to the road. “Say your dad is an asshole and you shouldn’t let him talk to you that way? Say a hundred amazing coaches on the circuit would chew their arms off to train you, so you’re not stuck putting up with his crap? Say one day he’ll push you too far, and it’ll be his fault you’re hurt, but he’ll still bitch at you? Why would I say that?”

Dean sighs, more exhausted than he was when he woke up this morning. “You know why I can’t.”

Charlie shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, she glances over at him. “I know why you won’t. Your mom wouldn’t want you to live like this, Dean. Grandma Campbell would have John’s head if she knew half the stuff he says to you.”

“That’s why she will never find out,” he admonishes. The Campbells and John have always been on cautiously civil terms. Dean isn’t sure if it’s because John ruined Mary’s second Olympic bid when he got her pregnant, or if there’s something deeper behind their animosity. They live in the lavish house Samuel and Deanna built them, but John pulls a salary from the aquatic center as if he was a normal employee. Dean doesn’t ask why because his family thrives on avoiding their issues. “Not worth the drama,” he adds, turning to stare out the side window with the vain hope Charlie will drop it.

Vain because Charlie doesn’t. “Promise me you won’t let him hurt you,” she says, then adds without the earlier venom, “physically, at least. He’s already done the rest of the damage.” Charlie reaches across the center console and squeezes his hand.

Dean squeezes back and swallows the lump in his throat. He’s not sure how he would have survived the last few years without her, especially after Sam left for college. Before college, it had been Sam standing up to John on Dean’s behalf. Sometimes, Dean thinks Sam went to California so he wouldn’t have to witness how John treats Dean anymore.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t know John is in the wrong. He worked with other coaches at the University of Kansas and during his training for Rio. Most coaches don’t drive their athletes like John does. But Dean also knows why John does it. Dean was only four when that fateful accident changed their lives forever, but even he could tell John was different afterward. They buried a part of him with Mary, and Sam and Dean were left with the shell. Fulfilling Mary’s dream to win gold at the Olympics is the only way Dean can give back a little of what was taken.

Dean’s phone rings as they pull into Whole Foods. He digs it out of his duffel—and stuffs his empty smoothie bottle in the pocket—while Charlie pulls the canvas shopping totes out of the trunk. Dean lets her string them on his arm as he swipes at the screen, wondering the whole time how he became such a hipster. That was always Sam’s role. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, balancing the phone on his shoulder to take the cart from Charlie. “I was just thinking about you. We’re headed into Whole Foods, and I said to myself, ‘What kind of girly stuff would Samantha get here?’”

“Haha. You act like you eat that stuff under duress, but you forget I saw you drinking a kale smoothie when no one else was around.” There’s the sound of crumpling paper, then a door slamming. “Anyway, I wanted to see if it would be okay if I brought Eileen to the Pro Swim in Santa Clara. She’s heading back to Ireland to see her parents for the summer, but I thought it might be a nice distraction from finals. And you could meet her.”

Following Charlie down the aisle—grunting in affirmation or disgust when she holds something up for an opinion—Dean makes a face. “Ooh, the elusive girlfriend meets the family, and dad can meet her in public where he’s less likely to be embarrassing. Win-win.”

Sam snorts. “I figured it was time she sees what she’s getting into, and yeah, the thought had crossed my mind.”

Dean nods to accept pork chops but squints when she tries to put liver in the cart. “It’s cool though. You gonna get your own room, or do you want me to get you one in our suite?”

“We’ll make our own way.”

“In case dad isn’t on his best behavior, you can make an escape?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, something like that.”

They chat for a while until the conversation turns to when Sam will be back in town around his summer internship. Every year, he and Sam take a camping trip somewhere in the northwest. With the way Dean’s training is going, there’s no way John will let him have time off before the US Open in August. “If we shoot for the week after, we could still get in a long weekend before I have to head back to Palo Alto,” Sam says.

“That could work. Figure out where you want to go, and I’ll work on dad. You know how he gets.” While there is a long break before the circuit starts again after the Open, John rarely gives Dean more than a day or two off at a time. Every year, it gets harder and harder to convince him to let them take the trip.

“Sounds good.” A car door opening and closing echoes through the phone, then a moment of static while Sam’s Bluetooth connects. “I gotta go,” he says. “I’m meeting Eileen for a study group.”

“Sure, a study group,” Dean responds with an exaggerated leer. “Make sure you use protection.”

Sam’s sigh is long and loud. “Grow up, Dean.”

“Later, Sammy.” Dean ends the call and shoves the phone in his pocket. He pushes the cart around the corner, following Charlie through the aisles. While Dean loves to eat—making it easy to get the huge number of calories they need during heavy training—it’s Charlie who keeps their diet from becoming monotonous. Her Pinterest board is full of recipes, and Dean just needs to approve them. After loading up on fresh fruit and veggies, Dean sneaks in a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread along with Charlie’s oat and flaxseed. Another flat of eggs, and they head to the checkout.

Half of their stuff is on the conveyor belt before Dean realizes Kaylee Johnson is the cashier. During his time at KU, she was in a bunch of his anthropology classes. They were friendly, but their relationship never progressed the way she wanted. By the time they met, Dean had sworn off dating, even though he hadn’t yet decided he prefers men.

“Dean, hey, how are you?” Kaylee gives him a sunny smile, her eyes flitting over Charlie. “You were on the ESPN highlights the other night. It sounded like you did well in Arizona.”

Dean nods, keeping his pleasant grin fixed, and hefts four gallons of milk onto the belt. Charlie piles the chicken behind them. “Didn’t do too bad. Charlie cleaned up in the two-hundred-meter breaststroke.”

“You looked fantastic, though.” She doesn’t quite flutter her eyelashes, but it’s close. “Simon—you remember Simon, right? From Linguistics?—well, his band is playing Saturday night at The Granada. You guys should come out.” She turns her bright smile on Charlie, almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah, sure, Simon. We’ll have to see,” Dean says as if he’s considering it. “We get up early for training, but we might make it out for the first set.” He loads the full bags into the cart and pulls out his credit card before Charlie can reach for her wallet.

“Awesome,” Kaylee gushes. “That would be cool. Hopefully, we’ll see you there.” Her fingers brush his as she hands him the receipt.

Charlie waits until they make it to the car before she snickers. “This is getting pathetic, Dean,” she says, punching him on the arm. “She’s been chasing you for years.”

“She’s cool, but she doesn’t understand what it means when I say I’m gay.” Dean takes Charlie’s keys and opens the trunk before tossing them back to her.

Snickers dying away, Charlie squints at him as she passes him two of the bags. “She’s cute. If she batted for my team, I would take a shot.”

As if his training schedule leaves any room for a relationship, even if he would date a woman again. A quick fuck every couple weeks is almost more than he can manage, and Dean is a disappointment to enough people in his life. “If nothing else,” Dean says, slamming the trunk, “dad would be so thrilled she doesn’t have a dick he would lighten training just so I had time to fuck her.”

Charlie snorts and climbs into the car. “Real nice, Dean. Classy.”


	4. Chapter Four

Charlie and Dean have putting away the groceries down to a science. Even taking time for lunch, they make it to the pool thirty minutes early, and they’re swimming lazy circles around each other when John arrives. The center manager, Candace, is with him, and John’s booming voice carries even in the massive room.

“This is bullshit, and you know it,” he barks, stomping over and slamming his clipboard on the bleacher. “We have the main pool signed out for the next three hours. Three-thirty to six-thirty, every day. It’s not new.”

“I know, John,” she says, holding up her hand. “The chlorinator in the secondary pool malfunctioned, and the lap pool has a high school meet booked at four. They’ll only need the shallow end of the first two lanes for an hour and a half. You won’t even notice them.”

“Fifteen screaming six-year-olds. Real easy to miss.”

Candace’s normally unflappable expression hardens. “Be reasonable. I don’t want to call Deanna, but I will. It looks horrible if we cancel the class.”

Dean looks away when John’s face goes red, catching Charlie’s eye. Shoving the Campbells’ power in John’s face is a sure way to send his blood pressure through the roof. Charlie returns his look and they both flip to kick off the wall, cutting through the water toward the far end of the pool. With John in this mood, training will be a real bitch whether they end up with a bunch of kids or not.

When Dean breaks the surface of the water on his way back to the wall, Candace is gone and John is wearing a scowl. So, they’ll be sharing the pool with a primary class. Dean doesn’t mind having the kids around, but John works them harder with an audience. After this morning, Dean isn’t sure if his body can take another 5000 meters. Something has to give, or he’ll end up hurting himself.

“300 meters freestyle to warm up,” John snaps, flipping through the pages on the clipboard with sharp, jerky movements. “Let’s try to get a solid workout in before the kids get here.”

Dean and Charlie exchange glances but nod without comment. Pushing off the wall, Dean lets the embrace of the water pull him under. The warm-up is comforting, and they are twenty minutes into a series of sprints—butterfly for Dean and backstroke for Charlie—when Jess comes in leading her class. The parents trail after them, three holding babies, plus a handful of toddlers and preschoolers. John is going to blow a gasket.

Jess waves to Dean with a sunny smile when he coasts to a stop to wait for John’s next instruction. There was a short period during high school when Jess and Sam were inseparable. Dean had been sure they would end up together, but when Sam went to Stanford, Jess stayed at home. Rather than making things work long-distance, the pair decided they want different things from life.

Dean was glad they had parted as friends when he and Jess ended up on the KU swim team together, her as a freshman and Dean as a senior. A year of awkward practices would have been miserable. Two years into a nursing degree now, Jess still swims competitively and teaches at the center when her schedule allows.

“You need to keep her up on the bleachers,” John barks, his voice betraying the strain of not screaming. Dean looks over to where a young woman is holding a wriggling toddler. “Running on the deck is dangerous.”

“Sorry,” the woman says, clamping her arms around the child. “She’s excited. Normally I wouldn’t bring her, but the sitter canceled, and I didn’t want Devon to miss his class.”

“Just keep her away from the pool,” John says, softening. While John had hardened by the time Sam was that age, Dean remembers the way John played with him. John found it easier to interact with his sons when they couldn’t talk back.

A series of alternating stroke laps are next on the schedule. Dean’s shoulders burn, but they’re not as wrecked as they were this morning, so he gives his father a thumbs up and flips into the next stroke. Since each stroke uses different muscle groups, changing his arms every lap is both more and less exhausting. Alternating isn’t as punishing as repetitive movements, but constantly tweaking his technique means he never slips into the meditative headspace long runs allow.

Three courses in, Dean is just getting ready to flip into his turn when a shadow passes over him, and a splash reverberates through the water. Weight hits his neck with a jarring thud, sending him careening toward the pool floor. In shock, Dean gasps, and the acrid water floods his lungs. He’s sinking, drowning, a flailing weight driving him deeper into the water. His feet hit the bottom of the pool and, in a panic, he shoves off, using the momentum to twist away.

Tiny, chubby arms wave in the churning bubbles around him and another splash rocks him backward. A body cuts through the water, and another weight hits him, shoving him toward the edge of the pool. Dean’s arms pinwheel, desperately pushing away from the onrushing concrete wall. The top of his head hits the wall with a sickening lance of pain so sharp his stomach lurches. He slumps sideways just before another glancing blow to the side of his head, and everything goes dark.

**********

He’s going to puke. Sharp needles of pain radiate outward when his eyes slit open, and he shuts them again. Even keeping his eyes closed, nausea roils through him. A droning beep echoes through his head, mimicking the heavy thud of his heart. Dean shifts, but his body is heavy, leaden, as if he’s wrapped in a thick blanket and held to the bed. At least, he assumes it’s a bed. Scratchy fabric brushes the back of his legs.

Dean takes a few shallow breaths to try calming his stomach and opens his eyes a tiny fraction, letting light filter through his eyelashes. Several moments of blinding pain pass, and he makes out the sterile white-and-silver insides of a hospital room. He turns his head, battling a wave of nausea, and sees Charlie slumped in the chair next to the bed. Her hair is slicked up into a messy bun on the top of her head, and her eyes are closed.

“Hey,” he tries, his voice a croak that sends pain lancing through his chest. Dean’s throat is tight, scraped raw on the inside, and his mouth is so dry his tongue sticks to the roof.

“Dean! Oh, thank God you’re awake!” Charlie’s eyes well up. She jumps up, her hands fluttering, and knocks a coarse grey blanket to the ground. “I’ll call a nurse. And your dad. He went downstairs to try Sam again. Samuel and Deanna are in the waiting room. They’ll want to see you.” Charlie stops, her face crumpling, and she swallows a wet hiccup. “Oh god, Dean. I’m so glad you’re okay.” The tears overflow and she presses her hand to her chest as if she can hold back her sob.

“Charlie,” he tries again, reaching for her, and his arm shakes with the exertion. An IV is nestled in the crook of his arm, and Charlie scoots around the tubes to collapse against his side. Dean brings his other hand across to cup her head as she cries into his shoulder. Her hair is soft and dry under his fingers. “What happened?” he rasps when she finally pulls away.

Charlie scrubs the back of her hand across her cheeks, but it does nothing for her bloodshot eyes. “There was an accident at the pool. A kid was running and fell in. John jumped in, but you hit your head. You almost drowned.”

Dean closes his eyes, but there’s just yawning darkness. He remembers arriving back at the pool in the afternoon, but everything after is a blank. “Don’t remember.”

“Your dad gave you CPR. I thought you were dead when he hauled you out of the pool, but he got you to breathe. You were awake when they put you in the ambulance, but you’ve been unconscious since we got here.”

Dean starts to shake his head, but the shock of pain stops him. “There’s nothing.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie says, patting his arm. “I’ll get the nurse, and let everyone know you’re awake.” She stops, her face softening. “I’m sorry. I’m just—I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I love you, asshole.”

Dean’s lips twitch into a smile. “I know. Me, too.”

A nurse comes in before Charlie gets back. He’s young, around Dean’s age, with buzzed blond hair and a cute smile. His hands are gentle when he cups the back of Dean’s head and shines a light in his eyes. Dean lets out an involuntary moan when the guy’s fingers graze the bandage nestled in his hair. “Hurts?”

“Yeah, and I might puke,” Dean whispers, pressing his eyes closed against the nausea.

The nurse nods. “The doctor might approve something to help. She’s on a call in the ER, but she should be back soon.” He marks something on the clipboard he’s holding. “I’m Oliver. I’ll be around the rest of the night, so just press the button there if you need anything. Visiting hours are almost over, but I’m gonna let your grandparents in.”

“That’s, yeah, that’s okay. My friend went to find my dad.”

“I saw her. Anything else you need before I go? Need to use the bathroom?”

Dean takes stock of his body, face burning at the thought of needing this stranger’s help to piss. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay,” Oliver says, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Don’t go by yourself. Call for a nurse; that’s why I’m here.”

Normally, Dean wouldn’t miss a chance to flirt with a hot nurse, but the whole experience is exhausting. “Got it.”

Oliver promises to send Dean’s grandparents in and leaves, stopping to drop the clipboard into a metal sleeve on the wall by the door. Dean stares into the darkness behind his eyelids. No matter how hard he tries, he doesn’t remember being in the pool or the accident. His muscles ache, but no worse than usual after a challenging training session. The pounding in his head and the ache in his chest are enough to tell him something unusual happened though. If he swallowed water, the dry rasp makes sense. Chlorine does a number on him.

Footsteps enter the room and stop. Dean opens his eyes to see his grandparents standing at the foot of the bed. Pop looks as stoic as usual, but his grandma’s eyes are puffy. “Hey,” he says, trying to push himself up off the bed.

“Stay still,” Gram says, laying her hand on his arm. A muted blue scarf holds her blond hair back, and the faint red creases on her cheek show she was sleeping on Pop’s shoulder when the nurse found them. “I’ll raise the bed up.” She futzes with the controls and the head of the mattress rises so Dean can look at them without straining. “You scared us, Dean,” she says, her voice breaking.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Despite the amount of time Dean spends in the spotlight, he hates being the center of attention, and he especially hates making people worry. “Are the kid and dad okay?”

Pop nods. “Fine,” he says with a grunt. “Lady should be ashamed of herself, though. The kid coulda killed you.”

“It was an accident, Pop,” Dean says, echoing Charlie’s words.

“Of course, it was,” Gram says, ruffling his hair, so her fingers brush the bandage. “We’ll let you rest. I just wanted to see for myself that you’re okay.”

Despite the waves of pain rolling through his skull, Dean forces a smile. “I’m fine. I’ll only miss a few days of training, then I’ll be good as new.”

Gram waves his words away. “You need to heal up; that’s all.” She bends to kiss his forehead and Dean leans into it, ignoring the pain. The familiar smell of her perfume wafts over him. “We’ll check in on you tomorrow.

“Glad you’re okay, kid,” Pop says, squeezing Dean’s calf as he passes.

Dean drops back against the bed after they leave. The thud of pain through his head is worse than when he woke up, and his chest aches more with each breath. A jittery restlessness moves through him, and his arms and legs twitch under the thin blanket no matter how he tries to hold them still.

Charlie walks in ahead of his father just a moment before the doctor arrives. “How are you feeling, Mr. Winchester?” the doctor asks, flipping through papers on the clipboard. She’s younger than Dean expected, but her dark brown eyes are calm and kind.

“Like crap,” Dean says with a weak cough. The heaviness in his chest is worse, and hazy dark spots gather at the edges of his vision.

“Understandable. You’ve suffered cranio-temporal blunt force trauma in two places. Aspirated pool water caused pulmonary edema and compromised oxygenation. You’re stable for the short term, but we need to watch you for dry drowning. I’d also like to run more tests, so it’s best if you stay with us for at least another day.”

“That serious?” John asks with a frown. His eyes skate over Dean and back to the doctor. “He seemed fine at the pool.”

“With head trauma, swelling in the brain can have severe repercussions that aren’t immediately noticeable. The MRI and CT scan will help us determine what the lasting effects will be. In addition, I’d like to order an ultrasound of your lungs,” she continues, looking at Dean instead of John. “We need to determine the extent of any damage.”

“It’s fine, dad. Let them do their tests.” Dean looks at where Charlie grasps his hand. “The sooner I rest up and get checked out, the sooner I’ll be back in the pool, okay?”

John nods, though he looks as if he wants to argue.

The doctor looks between them a few times, clenching her jaw. She sighs and settles her attention back on Dean. “The nurse said you’re in pain, so I’ll order something to help. Try to get some sleep tonight, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says, closing his eyes for a moment. The darkness is soothing, blunting the sharp edge of pain triggered by the lights. A firm hand on his ankle drags his eyes open again. John stands beside the bed.

“Glad you’re okay, Dean,” John says, and Dean wonders if the words feel as weird on John’s tongue as they sound in Dean’s ears.

“Ah, yeah. Don’t worry; I’m sure I’ll be back at work in a few days.” Dean isn’t sure what else to say.

John winces. “That’s not—” He stops and scrubs his hand through his beard, looking older than Dean has ever seen him. “Yeah,” he continues, looking away. “It’ll be fine.”

Charlie darts in to hug him, saying she’ll see him in the morning, but Dean makes her promise to do her morning training session before she comes back. There’s no reason for her to mess up her chances in the next Pro Swim just because he’s screwed. Oliver comes back in not long after they leave to administer the pain meds and something to help Dean sleep. He closes his eyes, watching the colors swirl behind his eyelids before he finally passes back into unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter Five

“I can walk up the stairs on my own,” Dean grumbles. Another forty-eight hours in the hospital being poked and prodded has rubbed his patience raw.

Even after CT scans and MRIs and X-rays and ultrasounds, they hadn’t been able to tell Dean much. The doctors determined he has a moderate concussion. The mild swelling in his brain has gone down since yesterday. Despite persistent headaches, dizzy spells, and a weird restlessness in his arms and legs, the doctor pronounced him in no real danger. She released him into John’s care with a prescription for painkillers, a long list of danger signs, and an appointment with the neurologist in four days.

“When you get dizzy and fall down the stairs, I’ll explain to your family how I let you break your neck… after I retire to Alaska.” Charlie wraps her arm tighter around his waist and guides him up the last few steps.

Dean leans on her more than he intends. The jittery trembling in his legs leaves them weaker than they were when they first entered the house. Though he would never admit it, he's relieved when she deposits him on the bed. Once he’s settled, Charlie arranges an assortment of pill bottles on his nightstand. Although the headaches are less intense, the pain still gets to him sometimes, and the edginess in his limbs makes it hard to sleep. Dean has never been one for medicating, but those pills have been his lifeline for the last two days.

“I haven’t been dizzy since Tuesday night. I could go with you.” Dean's missed five sessions, longer than he’s gone without swimming for more than a year. He does a few hundred meters daily even when he’s tapering for a meet. As much stress as swimming brings to his life, the thought of not being in the water terrifies him.

“I better not see you at the pool, Dean.” Charlie puts her hands on her hips, her tiny form the opposite of imposing. "I mean it." When he gives her an innocent look, she huffs and bends over, reaching for his shoes.

Dean bats her away. “Please tell me you’re joking right now. You’re not taking off my fucking shoes, Char.”

Charlie gives him a dirty look but drops his foot. “You must have been a riot when you were sick as a kid,” she says, dropping onto the bed next to him.

“Sam was worse. I learned real quick when I was seven or eight that being sick got me out of training. Getting sick was a vacation; I never complained.”

“Did you ever fake it?” Charlie asks with a smile. She pushes him back onto the bed and follows him down, resting her head on his chest.

Dean smooths one hand over her hair. Their nightly routine in college had been curling up together to study or watch TV, and it’s a habit they’ve continued. Convincing John to let Dean live on campus hadn’t been easy, and he'd been even less thrilled when they moved out of their dorms into a shared off-campus apartment junior year. They know there’s nothing more to it than friendship and comfort, no matter how uncomfortable it makes John.

“I was too afraid of Dad figuring it out to ever try,” Dean admits. “Sam whined and moaned until dad passed him off to Gram so he didn’t have to put up with him.” Dean hopes his injuries don’t linger long enough for John to give up on him. John let the National Team know about his injury and filed to forfeit the Arena Pro Swim in two weeks. The next meet isn’t until four weeks later, giving him plenty of time to heal up and get back into a training routine. Dean can’t bear to think he might not make it.

“Rest today,” Charlie murmurs into his chest, snuffling against his shirt. “Come tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

Dean closes his eyes. The wild jittering in his muscles is still there, but the nausea had faded with his headache. If he concentrates, a persistent ache radiates out from where the bandage covers the side of his head. It’s not bleeding anymore, but the rough pool wall scraped off enough skin it will be weeks before it’s healed. The doctor insisted he keep it sterilized and covered, at least until he sees the neurologist on Monday.

“I’ll take a nap,” Dean offers, “then see how I feel.” His fingers tangle in a curl, and he tugs until the strands separate. He picks up another, a soft melody whispering in the back of his mind as he combs through one curl after another. The notes change when each curl falls from his fingertips, blending into a tune lingering on the edge of his consciousness.

“Dean? Are you okay?” Charlie pulls his hand away from her head so she can push herself up to lean over him. The hesitant, panicked edge to her voice makes him open his eyes.

“What?” He tries to focus on her face, pale green eyes and freckles dancing and shimmering before resolving into Charlie’s concerned expression. “Sure, I’m good.”

Charlie purses her lips, her eyes narrowing as she studies him. “I was calling your name for at least twenty seconds. Are you sure you're all right? Maybe we should call your doctor.”

“No,” Dean snaps, shaking his head to clear it. A fresh wave of pain washes over him. He takes a slow, deep breath through his nose until it fades, taking the sudden nausea with it. “The doc said there was nothing they could do. I just need to heal.”

Charlie stares at him a few moments longer. Finally, she nods, the motion jerky with reluctance. “I have a blog post to write by Friday. I'll finish it, then head to the pool. Call if you need me.”

“Yes, Nurse Bradbury,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. Charlie pinches his thigh when she pushes away from him to stand up. Dean jerks, sudden pain sharper and more intense than he was expecting. “That’s abuse,” he says, rubbing his leg with the heel of his hand. “Your bedside manner sucks.”

“Wah, wah, wah,” Charlie tosses over her shoulder as she leaves the room. “Take it up with the management.” She pauses in the doorway and blows him a kiss, closing the door behind her.

Dean's eyelids flutter shut, and fatigue spreads out through his body. Every time he drifts off, a staccato twitch in his arm or leg jerks him awake. The melody returns, a piano so soft it sounds like it's playing in another room. Loud enough he registers the notes, but too faint to recognize it. Dean yawns and curls onto his side, bringing his hand up to rest on the pillow in front of him. The tune grows louder—more insistent—with each passing second. A soft tapping registers and he opens his eyes. A few inches from his nose, Dean’s hand is tapping out the rhythm matching the melody in his head.

“What the fuck?” Dean mutters, rolling to trap his hand beneath him. The song still plays in his head, but it ebbs and flows until finally he stops fighting it and falls asleep.

**********

Dean claws his way back out of sleep. He stares at the ceiling. Ecru? Eggshell? Still the same off-white it has always been. Dean stretches, raising his arms above his head. Normally, toe touches are good to loosen his back, but putting his head below his heart isn't the best idea at the moment. Instead, he grips his knees one at a time, pulling first one leg and then the other up to his chest.

The room spins when Dean tentatively swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. No weird melody and only a dull ache in his head. Barely noticeable queasiness and a tinge of antsy jumpiness in his limbs. So far, so good.

Charlie’s room is empty when he passes by on his way down to the kitchen. He’s not as steady on the stairs as he would like, but at least there’s no dizziness. Or rather, the dizziness he does feel isn’t debilitating. He grabs a banana from the counter and walks out the back door.

It’s a few minutes past three, so Charlie and John are starting the afternoon training session. Dean could go to the pool and watch. His dad will see he’s committed to getting better, and maybe Charlie will stop looking at him like she thinks he'll pass out.

Rather than pulling out his car—the doctor warned him against driving—Dean opens his banana and starts toward the pool on foot. He hums as he walks, the notes tripping over themselves, rearranging in his head, until he recognizes the tune from earlier. Dean yanks his hand back from where it’s tapping the matching rhythm on his leg.

What the hell? Dean has had songs stuck in his head before, but never like this. The snippets were usually fleeting, a few bars with the corresponding lyrics Dean could sing. The last song he remembers rattling around in his brain was _The Boys are Back in Town_. Thin Lizzy is less annoying than this ghostly composition drifting out of reach.

Dean tosses his banana peel in a garbage can on the street corner and shoves both hands in his pockets to prevent any more impromptu concerts. He looks around the intersection and stops, icy claws of panic inching down his back.

Nothing looks familiar.

Dean has only gone a few blocks from the house, but he might as well be in another country. Which way is the pool? Arizona Street or Trail Road? Dean turns in a slow half circle, studying each street. Dread sinks like acid through water to the pit of his stomach. Why can’t he remember? It isn't amnesia. He can remember his name, meeting Charlie, and a thousand other details. Even random swatches of the afternoon of the accident are coming back to him. So why the fuck doesn’t he know which way to go?

The lumbering groan of a bus passing drowns out the chatter of the few other people on the sidewalk, and Dean flinches away from the noise. A cool breeze ruffles his hair, wafting the stench of car exhaust over him and strangling him with the chemical burn of it. Dean spins around a few more times, straining for even one speck of recognition.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he pulls out his phone. If he calls Charlie, she’ll come find him. Charlie never lets him down.

Dean’s finger hovers over Charlie’s name in his contact list. If he calls, she’ll never let him out of her sight. She might take him back to the hospital where the bed is too hard, the food is horrible, and everyone asks invasive questions as if they have a right to know how long it’s been since he pissed.

He swipes the phone dialer away and stares at his home screen for a moment. An army of ants start a slow march up and down his extremities, and his breath comes in faster and faster gasps. Dean swipes through the screens for something to save him and sees the icon for the navigation app in the upper left corner. His hand shakes when he taps it. Dean hits the microphone when it opens. "Mary Campbell Aquatic Center,” he says into the phone, his voice straining with the effort of holding himself together.

The wheel on the screen spins for a moment—Dean’s heart lodged in his throat the whole time—and a pin pops up on the map. He sets the phone to navigate and releases a breath of relief when the arrow shows him Arizona Street is correct.

By the time he reaches the center, Dean’s calmer. He was confused. That’s all. The doctor said a little confusion and loss of focus is normal with a concussion. Nothing to worry about.

Dean walks through the front lobby and waves to Gwen. When he gets to the door leading to the pool area, he reaches into his pocket and realizes he doesn’t have his ID card. He turns back to the desk. “Can you buzz me in? Forgot my card.”

“Bound to happen,” Gwen says with a chuckle. She holds up a finger to the young woman she's helping and reaches under the desk. A metallic buzz sounds and the door latch releases with a loud click. He tugs the heavy door open and walks through it with a wave back at her.

“Hey, Dean,” Gwen calls before it closes behind him. He catches the door and looks back. “I’m glad you’re okay. You scared the shit out of us.”

Dean gives what he hopes is a charming grin. “Thanks. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

Gwen shakes her head, returning his smile before turning back to the patron.

The hallways are quiet, but a preschool class is being held in the secondary pool. Charlie told him John insisted they pay extra to get someone to look at the chlorinator so the kids won't need to use the main pool during training. Dean slips in the side door and slides onto the bottom bleacher. John is standing at the edge, watching Charlie cut through the water with a powerful breaststroke.

With her hair captured under the rubber swim cap, she’s a sleek torpedo. Though it's been months since Dean saw her swim without the cap, he remembers her red hair fanned around her face, a mermaid with laughing eyes. A week on the beach with his grandparents had been what they both needed after last year’s grueling circuit and the disappointment of Rio. John almost hadn’t allowed them to go, but he hadn’t had a good enough excuse to stop the Campbells from taking them to Italy. Seven glorious days of swimming in the Mediterranean with Charlie and Sam. No timers, no clipboards, and no one yelling at him to fix his form or to suck it up for one more sprint. Just the sun and the warm water cradling him, Charlie’s laughter in his ears, and the comforting presence of Sam at his side.

“Are you insane?”

Dean flinches, his eyes snapping up to Charlie’s furious ones. “Uh, I don’t think so?”

Charlie presses her lips into a thin line. “You’re supposed to be home resting.”

“I couldn’t lay around anymore, Char. Sitting here won't hurt me any more than sitting at home.”

John drops his clipboard on the bench next to Dean. “Good to see you up and around,” he says, clapping Dean on the shoulder.

“You’re not helping,” Charlie snaps, turning her glare on John.

“If he can sit at home, he can sit here. Ain’t gonna kill him.”

Dean smirks at Charlie. “Exactly what I said.”

“I hate you both.” Charlie stalks over and executes a smooth dive into her lane. She comes up fifteen feet from the edge and ignores them.

“Cut her some slack,” John says, sitting beside him, and Dean’s jaw drops. “She’s mother-henning you ‘cause the accident freaked her out.”

Dean gapes at John for a moment.

“What? I got eyes. Girl is a thorn in my side, but she loves you. A man needs people who will worry themselves sick over him once in a while.”

“She’s got that part down.”

They watch Charlie execute a perfect turn at the far wall and streak back toward them. “There are videos in the office you can go through if you wanna make yourself useful,” John says, clearing his throat, “or there’s the tweeting stuff. Devereux agreed to cancel the interview you had scheduled next week, but he asked if you could write up stuff for the website instead. I don’t understand what the guy is talking about half the time.”

Dean watches Charlie for a few moments. Sitting on the bleachers during training is strange. He takes a deep breath and counts Charlie’s strokes for a few seconds, the rhythmic pattern shifting into a melody. Dean hums a few bars before he jerks himself back and looks at John. “Yeah,” he says, wetting his dry lips and worrying the bottom one between his teeth. “I’ll, uh, go in the office and get to it. She doesn’t need me watching her. And don’t worry about Devereux. I’ll have stuff ready for him.”

John studies him for a few moments before he nods. “There’s a list on the desk. Knock yourself out.”

A big part of the game is keeping your name out there, but it’s no secret John hates anything having to do with computers or social media. Sponsors want to see you’re doing your part to promote their brands, and even the National Team expects a social media presence. Dean doesn’t have many sponsors, and none of them are prestigious national brands, but he still needs to post candid pictures wearing their gear or using their products. Charlie created a cloud folder they can upload photos to from their phones.

Once Dean closes the office door behind him, he can no longer hear the splashing from the pool or John’s voice barking directions at Charlie. He pulls up a few videos on the laptop—from this spring and last year—but watching himself on the screen is frustrating. What good is critiquing his form when he can’t even get in the water? Dean closes out of the video archive and pulls up Instagram. It auto logs him in, and he spends a few minutes posting pictures from the Arena Swim last weekend. Coming up with witty captions and hashtags takes longer than picking the photos.

Dean responds to a few comments and questions on his Facebook page and picks a few different pictures to post. He makes sure he uses a good one of Charlie and tags her in it. Although they haven’t announced the accident to the press yet, they can’t wait much longer. Dean not training will eventually leak. He argued for waiting until they see what the neurologist has to say on Monday before making an announcement. Charlie and John reluctantly agreed.

Loading Twitter doesn't go as smoothly. Rather than bringing up his account, the screen shows the account for the center. John must have given in to Deanna's requests for him to post something. Dean logs out and enters his own handle. He tabs to the password field and stops. The cursor blinks at him, waiting, but Dean’s mind is blank. What is his password? Shit.

Dean tries the obvious guesses, a few based on what he knows his other passwords are, but none of them work. Not Charlie’s birthday or his mom’s middle name and favorite flower or the nickname he called Sam during elementary school. Even _Impala67_ is a bust. Dean shoves away from the desk, the rolling chair crashing into the filing cabinet with a clang.

The little _Forgot password_ tempts him, but it feels like admitting defeat. It will come back to him. It may just take a few days. After all, his brain got scrambled just a few days ago. He’s entitled to a few slips.

Instead, he closes the browser window and pulls out his phone. A few clicks and his playlist fills the small room. Dean listens to the beginning of the first song, but something doesn’t sound right, so he clicks to the next. Soon, he’s scrolling through the list looking for the melody that has been haunting him. Not Led Zeppelin or Bon Jovi. He’s going through his Black Sabbath albums when Charlie pushes the door open.

“I’m going to get changed and head home if you want to ride with me.” She eyes the phone without commenting.

 “You're not going to the gym? Don’t skip out because of me,” Dean replies, turning the phone off and shoving it in his pocket. The mystery tune will have to wait.

“Nah, it can wait until tomorrow. I’m just not feeling it tonight.” Charlie grabs his hand to pull him out of the chair. “Anyway, I’m supposed to log on to the clan for a _Destiny_ raid at six tonight, and I still need to fill out the contract for Mad Wave. I’ll just stay after morning training tomorrow. The weight room is less likely to be packed then.”

Dean’s tired, so he doesn’t fight it. They pass John on their way out of the lobby, and he tells them he won’t be home for dinner. Dean and Charlie exchange glances since John is almost never at the house at all.

It takes Dean longer than usual to fold himself into the front seat of Charlie's tiny car. He looks out the window as she pulls out of the lot. “There’s more color in your cheeks now,” Charlie says, turning toward downtown instead of south toward the house.

Thank God he remembers how to get home at least. Dean shrugs. “I feel better. Not as spacey. I just hope a week off doesn’t kill my endurance.”

Charlie pulls onto the highway cutting across Lawrence. Once she’s merged into traffic, she glances over at Dean. “A week won’t kill you. Add some extra lifting once you’re cleared to build the muscle back up, and you’ll be fine. You’re locked for the Opens even if you don’t do the next two Arena meets.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean says with a slight whine. “I’m fucked if I miss the June Arena. Missing May is bad enough. Anyway, Sammy is bringing Eileen to Santa Clara. We gotta be there.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “You can explain that to my dad.”

Whether Charlie doesn’t want to get in another fight over John, or she really has nothing else to say, they lapse into silence. Two more exits and Charlie gets off the highway. When they turn onto Monroe Street, Dean finally realizes where she’s going. Their favorite diner when they were in college is a few blocks on the opposite side of campus from the center. Charlie pulls into the lot and finds a space up close. After turning off the car, she turns to Dean with a frown. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Dean returns, putting up his window and preparing to get out of the car. He shouldn’t overdo it on his diet since he’s not training, but the prospect of their cheeseburger is too good to pass up.

Charlie points at his leg. Dean looks down and realizes he’s tapping out the same rhythm again. The notes of the melody drift through his head as soon as he focuses on it. “You’ve been doing it all day. At the house earlier, and you were tapping on the bleacher when you were talking to your dad. You haven’t stopped since we got in the car.”

Dean deliberately curls his fingers into a fist. “It’s probably just excess energy from not being able to train. Grandma used to always tell me they thought I had ADHD when I was little.”

Charlie's eyes do the thing that means she’s not convinced. “It's familiar, like I almost recognize it.”

Shoving the door open, Dean climbs out and pulls his flannel shirt tight around himself. “I don’t know it,” he says, resolutely ignoring the melody still swirling through his head. “I’m starved. Let’s eat.”


	6. Chapter Six

There is no gradual awakening between one moment and the next, just blankness and jarring consciousness. Dean opens his eyes into the heavy darkness of his bedroom. The only light comes from the LEDs on the television and chargers, and he blinks a few times until they come into focus. He’s still groggy from the sudden wakefulness.

A dream—swimming and clambering out of the pool—vague impressions and shadows are all he can call up. The same melody haunting him the past two days still plays in his head. Dean rolls over and punches his pillow to get comfortable. The afterimage of the LED on his laptop charger shimmers in the darkness behind his eyelids.

After a few moments, he rolls over and opens his eyes again. He stares up at the ceiling and tries to make out the swirling pattern of the plaster, but it’s hidden in the shadows. The notes—he’s sure they have names, but he doesn’t know them—waft through his head over and over. Dean can't shake the feeling it’s a snippet of a longer melody, but it’s not one he knows.

The twinges in his legs match the melody, and he taps out the rhythm on the blankets. Dean doesn’t realize he’s doing it until the movement pulls the covers taut across his thighs. The notes string together like a mantra, a repeating phrase leaving his fingers itching for a piano.

Where did that thought come from? Though his grandparents have a baby grand in their living room, Dean has never played the piano. When Dean was younger, he often asked Deanna to play, but she always distracted him. There was so much sadness in her eyes when she looked at the piano Dean eventually stopped asking.

The more he considers it, the stronger the urge gets. He can imagine the smooth keys under his hands, and the rhythmic tapping turns into the spread of his fingers. Dean matches the notes, his hands shifting back and forth on his thighs. When he reaches the end of the snippet, he’s sure the next part of the song will start, but it loops back to the beginning again. Frustrated, he balls his hands into fists to stop the movement.

Dean presses his hands over his ears as if he can block out the song, but the sound is in his head, and it echoes even louder. The tune changes, becoming sharper, the notes no longer blending together at the edges. He flops onto his stomach, pulling the other pillow tight against his chest, and forces his eyes closed. Instead of fighting it, he hums along with the melody. As soon as one run ends, he starts again; the tune grows with added whirls and embellishments but never continues past the last haunting note. Somewhere in the darkness he finally drifts to sleep.

When Dean’s alarm goes off, he comes awake more gradually than he had in the early moments of the morning. The melody is still there, drifting through his head, but not as insistent or sharp as it was the night before. In a fit of pique, Dean pulls up his playlist and blasts AC/DC as loud as he can while he takes a quick shower.

Despite Charlie’s protests, he walks with her to the pool. No matter how much he hates it, he ignores the urge to change and get in the water. Two more days until he sees the neurologist. He’ll be good and do what they say. He doesn't have a choice. His dad will have his ass if he screws up his recovery.

“You’re not extending your left arm,” John snaps, drawing Dean's attention back to the training session in front of him.

Charlie glides to a stop, treading water as she glares up at John. “That’s as far as I can extend it.”

“Then you need to spend more time stretching. Increase the weight on your next circuit in the gym, too. You need more power out of that shoulder.” John writes on the clipboard he’s carrying.

Charlie rolls her eyes, but she nods before swimming over to the edge of the pool and starting her lap over. Despite her insubordination, she’ll do what John suggested. John may be an asshole sometimes, but he knows what he’s doing. She’s never complained about John’s coaching, just the way he delivers it to Dean.

Dean tries to stay focused on Charlie’s laps, on watching the way she moves—critiquing her strokes and the alignment of her hips—but his mind keeps wandering. The tune is still there, distant and faint. If he doesn’t focus on it, he can almost ignore it. Every time his attention wanders, though, he finds himself bouncing his leg and tapping the rhythmic beats on the bleacher.

After forty-five minutes, John slaps the clipboard on the wood next to Dean’s thigh. “We boring you?”

Dean startles, his heart rate spiking. His eyes snap up to John’s face. “No, ah, I’m just antsy, I guess.”

John narrows his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, no headaches or anything,” he says, despite the throbbing starting behind his left eye. When John raises one eyebrow, Dean remembers John saw him lose his balance in the hallway last night. “Okay, so I was a little dizzy last night, but only from laying around. I gotta burn off some energy.” He doesn’t mention the song stuck in his head. There’s no good way to explain it.

“Go take a walk or something. You’re making me crazy.”

Dean wants to argue, but he knows better. Once John lays down the law, it’s easier to fall in line. Sam has never agreed, but that’s why he’s two thousand miles away. Dean learned the lesson the hard way.

He climbs to his feet and waves at Charlie before heading for the lobby. Gwen is at the desk, but she’s busy with a family, so Dean walks out the doors and stands on the sidewalk. Crisp morning air laced with the sweet scent of crape myrtle fills his lungs. He wants to move, to shake off the weird restlessness, but he has a low-grade fear of getting lost again. With the address of the house programmed into his GPS as _Home,_ he tries to ignore it.

Dean refuses to give in to the little voice telling him to go home and rest. Instead, he walks in the opposite direction from the house, following streets he has traveled a thousand times. Today, they’re familiar—six blocks southeast and he’ll be on the KU campus—but he still worries. A part of him is afraid he’ll look around and not recognize his surroundings. The doctor said there might be long-term damage. Dean hasn’t mentioned it to anyone—not even Charlie or Sam—but he thinks she's right.

The sidewalk winds deeper into the city, and Dean hums the melody under his breath as he walks. A pressure lifts, similar to the first moments of clarity after taking out his earplugs, when he gives into the song. The notes are always there, drifting under the surface of his thoughts, and fighting them is exhausting. The tune repeats, over and over, pulling him along the sidewalk until he looks up and realizes he doesn’t recognize the shops lining the street. Icicles spread inside his chest, freezing the melody in his throat.

Dean looks around, studying the stores. He’s not sure if he’s disoriented or if he has never been in this part of town. There is a used bookstore to his right, a tiny coffee shop next to it, and an honest-to-god cobbler to the left. Dean scans the storefronts on the opposite side of the street. His gaze flits over an insurance agent and a place advertising psychic readings and stops on a music store.

There are guitars of various shapes and sizes—both acoustic and electric—hanging in the bay window, along with a sign advertising lessons. A drum set sits on the ledge, surrounded by stickers for what Dean assumes are instrument brands. Beyond the drums, something sleek and black catches his eye, the ivory keys glinting in the sunlight filtering through the glass.

Dean jogs across the street and stares through the window. A baby grand—smaller than the one at his grandmother’s house—sits in the corner. Tall stacks of boxes surround the elegant instrument, and it looks out of place amongst the piles of amps and rock band gear. Dean’s fingers itch, and he can imagine sitting on the bench, letting his hands drift over the keys until he finds the ghostly melody. He pulls the door open and steps inside the cluttered shop before he can talk himself out of it.

The air inside the shop is thick with dust and cloying incense, and it tickles the back of his throat. Music, something loud and heavy, fills the space. Dean swallows and looks around the store. Two girls in their early twenties stand at the counter while a man with dark tousled hair slouches beside them. His deep chuckle is audible over the music. Dean spares them a glance and turns toward the piano.

A lump forms in his throat as he approaches. What the hell is he even doing? He doesn’t know how to play the piano. Sitting in front of one won't pull the music out of his head any more than humming does. Dean sighs. This is stupid.

Dean turns to leave, but the insistent twitching in his hands stops him. What can it hurt to try? The old floorboards creak as he walks to the piano and gingerly takes a seat on the bench. The keys are cold under his fingers when he splays them over the pale ivory. Self-conscious, he looks toward the back of the store, but it doesn't look like the people at the counter have noticed him.

Courage is almost beyond Dean, but he gathers enough to press a single key. A bright, sharp note rings out through the store. Dean winces at the loudness even though the music coming over the store’s PA system drowns it out. He looks out of the corner of his eye, but no one is paying attention, so he taps a few more keys. The notes reverberate through his chest. Finally, Dean hits a note from the melody cycling in his head. His hands tremble when he spreads his fingers on the keys surrounding it. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and presses the key again.

Something slots into place inside his head. The notes—inside and out—twine together and grow, echoing back and forth until they encompass him. Without being able to explain why, he moves his hands to a key several inches away. It’s the second note in the string. An odd tingling swells in his chest and expands out through his arms. His heartbeat races in his chest, pounding in his ears. His hands move again, and he finds the next note.

Without looking, he continues to play, the notes coming more and more smoothly. Dean isn’t sure how he knows where to find them on the keyboard, but the music rising around him mimics the tune in his head. For the first time since the accident, a sense of calm swells inside him despite the way his heart is thudding.

Dean pauses before he plays the last note in the melody. An overwhelming sadness washes over him, and tears spring to the corners of his eyes. This is it. The end. Once he plays this note, it will be a continual repetition of the same progression over and over. Something is missing, but Dean has all but given up the hope of ever finding it.

He takes a deep breath and presses the last note. The sound lingers in the surrounding air, and Dean holds the breath until his lungs burn. The note fades as darkness prickles at the edges of his vision.

And then he flexes his fingers, and another note cuts through the air.

Then another.

Dean's hands move independently, note and counter note. The song continues, growing harmonies winding a spell around him. His fingers unerringly find the keys to bring the song to life. Hearing it with his ears, not only inside his head, is enrapturing. Dean swallows, his throat tight, overcome with the beauty of it.

Time falls away and his hands are numb when a soft sound behind him startles him into missing a note. When the last lingering tone fades, the shop is silent. No harsh rock music blaring through the overhead speakers, only the shuffling of feet behind him.

Dean's eyelids flutter open, and he blinks, registering the damp tear tracks streaked down his face. His sinuses ache enough to tell him he’s been crying for a while. He scrubs the wetness away with the heels of his hands and turns to face the person behind him.

The man from behind the counter stands a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black skinny jeans. Dean hadn’t noticed before, but he’s wearing a pale blue t-shirt with a colorful pony on the front, the words _Rainbow Dash_ in glitter below it. Intricate designs—musical notation shot through with dark green vines and bright splashes of flowers—wind their way up both arms and disappear into his shirt sleeves. A single musical note drips from the right corner of his bright blue eyes and two silver balls frame the outer edge of his left eyebrow.

The man rocks back on his heels and clears his throat. “Holy fuck,” he says, his voice a deep, rolling timbre. “I’m glad Raph listened when I told him not to get rid of the piano.”

He takes a step closer, and Dean shifts back, pressing himself against the keys and wincing at the discordant sound. “Sorry, I, ah, I saw it and—”

“Don’t apologize. We don’t get classically trained pianists in here, like, ever. That was fucking beautiful.” The man pulls one hand out of his pocket and tugs at the bottom hem of his too-small t-shirt. It’s pulling up, revealing a sliver of tanned skin where the jeans ride low.

Dean follows the motion with his eyes. There are piano keys tattooed across his knuckles and down his fingers. “I’m not—I should go.” Dean stands up, knocking the bench back against the piano, and edges away from the man

“I’m Castiel,” the guy says, holding out his hand. He ignores Dean's frantic attempt at flight. “Where did you study? Not K.U., not playing Satie like that. Tell me you didn’t go to Juilliard.”

Dean looks at the man’s outstretched hand and back at his face. Dark stubble dusts his strong jawline, and Dean’s mouth goes dry. Despite the tattoos and the piercings and the fucking god-awful abomination of a t-shirt he’s wearing, he’s fucking gorgeous, and Dean can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and he’s going to pass out, and he doesn’t even know where the hell he is or how he got here.

Dean sucks in a rasping gasp of air and stumbles backward. He can’t do this right now, not with the song still echoing in his head and his hands twitching to turn around and play it again. “I can’t,” he forces out, shoving past the man. “I’m sorry; I have to go. I’m sorry.” He rushes to the door and out into the bright afternoon sun.

Heart pounding in his throat, Dean breaks into a run once he hits the fresh air. He sprints down the sidewalk, pausing only to check for cars before crossing one, two, and then three streets. At least ten blocks pass before he slows to a stop. He collapses against a dirty brick wall and doubles over, holding his stomach as he fights back the bile crawling up his throat.

Sharp needles of pain lance from temple to temple and his chest burns after being sedentary for so long. Dark haze seeps in, and the street blurs. Dean clenches his eyes shut against the dizziness and pain. He forces him himself to take deep, even breaths, willing his stomach to settle and his vision to clear. His legs give out, and he slumps to the ground, his back resting against the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. Dean wraps his arms around his legs and breathes. One… two… three… four… five. He holds the last one for a few seconds and blows it out.

After a few minutes, his racing pulse finally settles. When he's no longer light-headed, Dean opens his eyes and forces himself to his feet. He’s shaky, but his vision is clear. His hand trembles when he pulls out his phone. There’s a text message from Charlie telling him she’s running to the grocery store, time-stamped over an hour ago. Dean's fingers hover over her picture. He wants to tell her, to talk to someone about what is happening to him. Is he going crazy? Who sits down at a piano and plays a song with no training? How is that possible?

Dean flicks the screen to the side and pulls up the navigation app instead. When the directions come up, Dean changes the route several blocks out of his way so it doesn’t take him back past the music store. He starts home at a slow pace, piano music still swirling around him.


	7. Chapter Seven

Dean slaps his phone and throws it across the room when the alarm goes off. Charlie’s footsteps stop outside his door, and he buries his head under his pillow so he can’t hear her walk away. He didn’t go to the pool last night either. Instead, he burrowed under the covers and pretended to be asleep. Hiding in his room was easier than dealing with whatever was happening to him.

Charlie is standing at the stove putting together chicken fajitas when Dean stumbles into the kitchen at noon. She holds up a rolled fajita and waves it at him like a baton. “I was wondering if I should come check on you,” she says, dropping the fajita onto the plate with the others. Shredded cheese tumbles from the ends when she pushes three off onto another plate and slides it across the counter toward him.

“Just tired, I guess,” Dean mumbles, tugging the plate closer. A big bite of fajita stops him from elaborating.

Charlie pours two large glasses of milk and takes a seat on the stool next to him. They eat in silence for a while before Charlie says, “I’m taking you to your appointment.”

Dean chews slowly and washes it down with a mouthful of milk. He’s seeing the neurologist in less than an hour, and he’d been hoping she forgot. “You’ve got training this afternoon. I can get myself there.”

“You’re not cleared to drive yet.”

“I’ll take a bus.”

Charlie sighs and flicks him in the arm. “Stop being a jerk. I’m taking you, and that’s the end—”

“Don’t you got that thing at the school this afternoon?” John slaps a stack of folders on the counter, and Dean jumps. He hadn’t heard John come in. “Figured I’d take him to see the doc.”

John reaches into the fridge for a bottle of water, and Dean makes big eyes at Charlie while he isn’t looking. He has so many questions he wants to ask the doctor, and he doesn't want his dad to hear most of them.

“It’s not ‘til tomorrow,” Charlie says, sending Dean a reassuring smile.

Dean swallows roughly. “It’s fine, Dad. You don’t need to go.”

John bumps the fridge door closed with his hip and unscrews the cap from his water. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean rushes to assure him. “You’ve got stuff to take care of for the national championships. They’re gonna give me a clean bill of health and send me home. No need for you to waste the time.” John has never gone to a doctor’s appointment with Dean. When he was young enough to need a parent, his grandmother took him.

“Okay, yeah. If you’re sure. Make sure you ask if you’ll be ready for the Pro Swim in June.”

Dean barely stops himself from sighing. “Sure. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Charlie and Dean finish their lunch and escape. During the ride downtown, Dean zones out. He’s lost in his memories of the keys under his fingers when Charlie clears her throat.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I going to find out when you tell the doctor?”

Dean jerks and looks up. They’re pulling into the parking lot at the college. “It’s not that I don’t want you to know, Char. I’m just not sure how to explain.”

The car rocks when she puts it in park. Charlie turns and studies Dean for a long moment before nodding. “Something happened yesterday, right? At least tell me that.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie nods once, sharp and decisive. “But you’re okay?”

“Um, maybe?” He licks his lips and runs one hand through his hair, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage. “Let’s just go. It’ll be easier if I can get it out all at once.”

Charlie worries her bottom lip the entire time they’re checking in, and Dean is grateful when a peppy nurse calls his name almost immediately after they sit down. Dean looks away from the scale when she takes his height and weight. His clothes fit the same, but he's afraid to see a loss.

Once they're in the exam room, she takes his blood pressure and enters it into the computer. “Dr. Harris will be in to see you shortly. The hospital sent over your test results, and the doctor has reviewed them.” The smile she gives them as she leaves is tired but warm.

Charlie continues to chew her lip while they wait. Dean fights to keep his legs from bouncing and goes over the events in the music shop again. The song that’s stuck in his head, finding the store, sitting at the piano. He flushes when he remembers how he bolted from the store. The guy’s startled expression when he turned to flee is burned into his mind.

The door opens and a man in his early fifties, with thick grey hair and a white lab coat, walks in. “Mr. Winchester? Dr. Harris.” He shakes Dean’s hand. “Confirm your date of birth for me?”

“January 24, 1994.”

The doctor punches something into the computer and nods when the scans of Dean’s brain come up on the screen. “That wasn’t a test,” he says, turning around to give Dean a quick smile. “Have to make sure you’re the right patient. When the brain scans don’t match up, things get awkward.”

Dean chuckles weakly. “I can imagine.” When the doctor turns back to the computer, Dean makes a face at Charlie behind his back.

“Anyway, you dropped two pounds since your release, but that’s expected with your injury. Likely muscle mass from being sedentary. You are taking it easy, right?” Dr. Harris raises one bushy eyebrow and smiles again when Dean nods. “Too many people think they can jump right back on the horse after a TBI. BP looks good, no concerns there. Appetite okay? Nausea?”

“Appetite is good, I guess. A little sick to my stomach, mostly when I first wake up but it hits me off and on the rest of the day too.”

The doctor ticks several boxes on the screen and hums. “Dizziness with the nausea? Headaches?”

Dean looks sideways at Charlie out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes to both, and you’ve been hiding it?”

“It’s not as bad as it was,” he admits, and Charlie makes a soft noise. Dean rests his hand on her leg before he continues. “I get dizzy two or three times a day. Usually right after I stand up, but sometimes when I'm just sitting there or walking. There doesn’t seem to be a reason.”

“You have a traumatic brain injury, son. That _is_ the reason,” Dr. Harris says. He and Charlie share an unimpressed look over Dean’s head. “How long do the dizzy spells last? Have you lost consciousness or fallen because of them?”

“A couple seconds usually, but sometimes a minute or two. The worst was about five minutes on Saturday. I haven’t passed out or fallen or anything.”

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What was so special about Saturday?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek before admitting, “I overdid it on my walk. Got worked up and was going too fast.”

“Too fast? So you were running?”

Dean meets the doctor’s eyes. “A little, yeah.”

“Dumbass,” Charlie mutters, and the doctor nods in agreement.

“Okay, so you did some running on Saturday and had a five-minute dizzy spell afterward. Blurry vision and headache with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Scale of one to ten with ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”

Dean thinks for a second. The pain had been horrible for a few minutes, but it wasn’t as bad as right after the accident. “Six, maybe? Seven at the worst.”

“Which is it?”

“Seven,” Dean concedes. The pain had drilled into his skull like an ice pick, and Dean squeezes the back of his neck to chase away the phantom reminder.

The doctor nods and makes a note. “Memory loss?”

Dean looks at Charlie again, and she sighs. “I get it. You’ve been lying because you’re an asshole who didn’t want me to find out how bad it is. Now tell the man what he needs to know.” Charlie crosses her arms with an angry huff.

The doctor snickers under his breath, but he says nothing while Dean considers how to explain. “Not memory loss, really. I remember my name and my life and everything. Other than the bit right before the accident to when I woke up in the hospital, everything else is there.”

“Okay. What’s missing?”

“How to get places. I’ll be walking, and suddenly nothing looks familiar.”

The doctor hums again. “How many times has this happened?”

“Every time I’ve walked somewhere in town by myself. It doesn’t happen in the house.” Dean waves his hand through the air as if it will help him explain. “I’m not just sitting in my room and suddenly don’t know where I am. But often enough I programmed the address of the house and the pool into my GPS just in case.”

Charlie makes another angry sound, and Dean reaches over to squeeze her hand. She resists for a moment before squeezing back.

“Okay, spatial memory loss and disorientation. And in the house? Are you finding yourself misplacing things more often? Not being able to remember where you put them? Or running into walls, doors, or furniture more than prior to the accident?”

Charlie narrows her eyes, probably remembering the number of times in the last week Dean misplaced his phone, his shoes, or his keys. “Definitely,” Dean admits. “And there’s a bruise on my shin from kicking the table in the entryway every time I pass it.”

“You’ve been bouncing your leg and tapping your thigh the whole time we’ve been talking. Is that new, or did you have psychomotor agitation before the injury?”

Dean looks at his lap and realizes the doctor is right; he is bouncing his leg. His hands are splayed across his thighs, tapping out what he now knows are the notes to the song drifting through his head. Dean swallows hard. “That’s new,” he says in a small voice.

The doctor nods. “Anything we haven’t covered? Flashing lights, paralysis?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Paralysis?”

“It happens.”

“No, nothing like that,” Dean hurries to say.

“Okay. Let’s check the wound.” The doctor stands and peels back the bandage from Dean’s head. He folds it and puts it in the biohazard container. Dean winces when he prods it. “You’re healing fine. No sign of infection and the swelling has lessened. I’ll put more antiseptic on it, but you can leave the bandage off. Be careful to keep it clean and swab it with antiseptic twice a day.”

Charlie nods. “We’ve been using the pink stuff they gave us at the hospital.”

“Perfect.” Dr. Harris uses a small light to check Dean’s pupil response. Dean jerks when the doctor claps right next to his head, and he hits his elbow on the desk. “Sorry about that,” the doctor says with a chuckle as Dean rubs his arm. He uses the small hammer to tap below Dean’s knees until his legs jump. “Everything looks good. You appear to be healing well.”

“I can swim?” Dean flushes at the naked hope in his voice.

Dr. Harris scans the chart and nods tentatively. “Very, very cautiously, yes. You can begin light swimming. Not speed drills, mind you.” He smiles like he knows what Dean is thinking. “Ten to twenty minutes of light activity at first. If there’s any dizziness, disorientation, or pain, you need to stop and get out of the pool. You should report symptoms lasting more than twenty minutes after the activity to the office here.”

Dean nods. “Got it.”

“I’ll order another CT scan and MRI for tomorrow morning to ensure the slight swelling in your temporal lobe has decreased.” He taps an image of Dean's brain on the screen. “I’ll read them by tomorrow afternoon, and you could be in the pool by the day after.”

“That would be great. The next meet is in June, and I’d like to be ready for it.”

The doctor leans back in his seat, folding his hands and resting them on his lap. “It will depend on how you do as we add activity back into your routine. Some people do better with a return to their usual physical activity, but it can be too much. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Fat chance. “I won’t,” Dean lies. “I just want to let my sponsors and the team know if there’s any chance.”

“I understand, Dean. You’re not the first professional athlete to sit in that chair, but we can’t rush these things.” He shifts his gaze from Dean to Charlie as if he knows she’ll keep Dean from overdoing it. “He must exercise caution. Any additional hemorrhaging or edema can be life-threatening.”

Charlie swallows and grabs Dean’s hand again. “I’ll make sure he takes it easy.”

“Go straight to the hospital at eight a.m. tomorrow for the tests. How are you doing with the painkillers? Need a refill?”

The bottle of pills on his nightstand is still half full. He hates taking medication, so once the headaches became tolerable, he’d done without. “I haven’t been taking them.”

Dr. Harris purses his lips. “Don’t be a martyr. If you’re in pain, you’re more likely to experience dizziness and nausea, putting you at risk for secondary injury. My concern is not only for the blunt force trauma. Oxidants build up when your brain goes without oxygen, and they can continue to cause damage long after the injury. We won’t know for several more weeks how your brain chemistry has been affected. The more pain you are in, the more your body produces hormones to counteract it, and it will take longer for your body to display its current level of functioning.”

“So, take the pills.”

There’s a faint twitch of the doctor’s lips. “Yes, Mr. Winchester, take the pills.” He punches the prescription into the computer before saying, “Do you have any other concerns?”

Dean freezes, the words stuck in his throat. No matter how many times he’s practiced it, he’s not sure what to say.

“There’s something else?” Dr. Harris says, leaning forward to study Dean.

“Sort of?” Dean shifts in his seat before saying in a rush, “Do people ever wake up with, um, special abilities?”

The doctor’s lips twist to the side. “Like superpowers?”

Dean can’t hold back his chuckle. “That would be awesome,” he says sincerely. “No, I mean, there’s been this song stuck in my head. The same couple of notes over and over again.”

The doctor cocks his head to the side and rubs his chin. “Involuntary musical imagery is quite common, even without a brain injury. I hummed a Spice Girls song so much last week, my wife almost brained me with a candlestick.”

“It’s not like normal though. It’s there all the time, ever since the accident. I find myself humming it or tapping out the rhythm of the notes even though I don’t know the song.”

“A piece of music may have been encoded in your memories and is now coming out as the brain tries to heal itself. Many people with this kind of injury suddenly remember minute details concerning events they have long since forgotten.”

Dean takes another deep breath and blows it out in a long, slow exhale before squaring his shoulders. “Can they sit at a piano and play a piece of classical music they don’t know even though they’ve never played piano before in their lives?”

The doctor freezes. “You did this?”

“On Saturday,” Dean confirms with a nod. “I can’t think about anything but playing this song. And then I was walking, and there was a music store with a piano. I sat down, and the notes were just there. I have no idea how I did it, but I was good enough the clerk thought I was a classically trained pianist.”

Dr. Harris steeples his fingers and taps his lips a few times. “In very rare cases, patients have developed what is called acquired savant syndrome after suffering a traumatic brain injury.”

Charlie, who had been staring at the side of Dean’s head with her mouth agape, jerks upright. “I saw a TV show about that. A guy was in a car accident, and when he woke up, he was a master painter.”

“Exactly. A colleague of mine at the college works with individuals who have suffered traumatic brain injury. She has a specific interest in acquired savant syndrome. Would you be willing to meet with her?”

Dean shrugs. “If she can tell me what the hell is going on with me, sure.”

The doctor makes a phone call and writes out a time and contact information for Dr. Ellen Harvelle on a slip of paper. Dean stops at the front desk and makes a follow-up appointment for the following week. Charlie will be unbearable on the way home, but Dean doesn’t care. He can swim again, and he’s closer to finding out if he’s going crazy. He’ll consider today a win.


	8. Chapter Eight

Dean is awake before his alarm goes off. He’s showered, dressed, and halfway to the pool—breakfast lying heavy in his stomach—before he realizes he should have waited for Charlie. The music is louder today, more insistent. His muscles twitch, and his fingers itch to play. There’s something different today, the same notes but in a different order, with a full harmony behind it.

By the time John arrives at the pool, Charlie not long behind him, Dean is sitting on the bleachers. The surrounding echo had magnified every sound in the empty locker room and getting changed had been strange after so long. There’s nothing he can do for his restlessness, but he pushes on his leg to stop it from bouncing whenever John looks over at him.

Keeping still during the tests yesterday had been torture, but it was worth it when the doctor called him to give him the results. Slight swelling and handful of dark spots where the lack of oxygen damaged the tissue. Permanent damage to his brain is terrifying, but the doc gave him the go-ahead, and that’s what matters. Dean had almost hung up the phone and gone straight to the pool, but he knew Charlie would have his head. Instead, he let her drag him into her room to catch up on _Game of Thrones_ and tried not to ignore the pull of the water.

John drops his clipboard onto the bleacher next to Dean and clasps Dean’s shoulder. “Take it easy today. Float a little at first; get your sea legs back. Then a slow crawl down and back. Nothing too crazy.”

Dean looks up at John, thrown off by the gentleness in his words. Sometimes, with how hard John pushes him, it’s easy to forget John is a well-respected coach on the circuit. Even if Dean is only a tool, John knows better than to damage him. Mouth dry, Dean nods. “Sure, yeah. Work up to it.”

Charlie comes clanging out of the locker room, and Dean’s heart rate kicks up. This is it. Go time. He closes his eyes and imagines the water rushing over his skin and the burn of the chlorine in his nose. Four weeks until the next meet and only eight until the National Championships. Not nearly enough time to make up the training he’s missed.

Dean and Charlie stretch first. Several of the stretches are more effective if you have a partner to push against, and Charlie’s hands are chilly against Dean’s skin. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the twinges in his muscles rather than the ever more insistent song playing in his head. When it’s Charlie’s turn, he kneels over her, pushing her knees up and pulling her arms across her chest.

When they’re done, Dean pulls his swim cap on and rinses his goggles in the pool before snapping them over his eyes. He walks over to the starting board, heart racing in his chest, and John clears his throat.

“Go off the side, nice and easy,” he says, pointing to the edge of the pool.

Dean deflates. He’s been diving since he was six. The moment right before he hits the water holds the potential for everything he might accomplish. Dean pulls his goggles up and squints at John. “I can dive.”

“What part of taking it easy did you not understand, boy?” John snaps. “You’re gonna get in the water nice and slow, and you’re gonna doggy paddle ‘til we make sure you’re not gonna pass out and drown. I ain’t pulling your ass out of the water a second time.” John plants himself between Dean and the platform and glares until Dean looks away. Charlie won’t meet his eyes, so he obviously won’t get any support from her.

“Fine.” Dean doesn’t bother to snap his goggle back on. He walks over and sits on the side of the pool, letting his legs dangle in the lukewarm water. Dean kicks his legs back and forth a few times before he turns and slips off the side. The water closes around him, but he catches himself on the ledge before his head goes under.

There’s a splash behind him, and Dean swivels his head to watch Charlie streak past, a sleek blue blur under the water. She surfaces a few meters away and breaststrokes to the far wall before flipping and heading back. The water disturbed by her dive laps against Dean’s neck, creeping up to lick at his chin. The buzzing of the notes in his head gets louder.

Charlie slows and glides the last few feet toward him, the joy on her face betraying how happy she is to have him back in the water with her. Dean’s heart clenches. He’s been so focused on everything he’s been going through he hasn’t spared much thought to how hard this must be for Charlie. Although she’s ranked in the top sixteen worldwide, nothing is tying John to her. If Dean can’t swim, there’s a good chance John might give up coaching. If that happens, there’s no reason for Charlie to stay with them anymore. She’ll need to find a new coach, and that will mean moving. Olympic-level coaches aren’t just hanging out in Lawrence, Kansas.

“How do you feel?” she asks, one arm wound around his neck.

“Good.” The gentle lap of the water rocks his body, contributing to a vague sense of dizziness. It’s far less severe than the other episodes he’s had, so Dean swallows and gives Charlie a smile. The weightless buoyancy of the water eases the tension in his muscles. He’s at home in his body for the first time in so long it’s overwhelming. Dean hadn’t noticed how heavy his limbs were until the water supported them. “I’m good,” he repeats, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Do your sprints. I’m gonna float around and get used to being in the water again.”

Charlie kisses him on the cheek as John calls out the sequence of sprints and technique work he has planned for the day. Even two lanes over, the power of her passing sends ripples to rock Dean’s body. He watches her for a few minutes, remembering the burn of his muscles bunching to push-pull him through the water. Dean takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as he can, and pushes off the wall backward. He floats for several feet, propelled through the water by his shove off the wall. When the momentum slows, his legs sink first, and Dean lets them pull him under.

For one long moment, he’s enveloped in perfect stillness. The water closes over his face, fills his ears and nose, and silence engulfs him. There’s another world under the water, one he’s missed.

Once second… two seconds… Dean counts his heart beats. The first two are steady, but they’re speeding up. By the third and fourth, his heart is racing, pumping adrenaline through his system. His eyes snap open, but the water is full of dark shadows. The song hit a crescendo, pounding discordant piano notes crashing through him, over him. He flails, but his face doesn’t break the surface.

How far did he sink? Which direction is up? Skittering electricity races through his limbs, twitching and flailing around him. Dean kicks as hard as he can, just moments away from running out of oxygen. Where the fuck is the surface? Bubbles rush past his face and the edges of his vision blur into darkness. Why can’t he reach the top? Why doesn’t anyone see he’s drowning?

Arms wrap around his waist, startling him. Strong legs kick alongside his, pushing him upwards. And then they’re breaking the surface. Despite the humidity, cool air rushes across his face, and Dean pulls in long, rasping gasps of breath. Charlie still has hold of him, pushing them toward the wall where John bends over the edge. John is waving, yelling something, but Dean can’t make out the words over the splashing and the wall of music inside his head.

Strong arms slide under his armpits and drag him up over the ledge. John stumbles backward and falls on the deck with Dean cradled in his arms. Dean’s head pounds and the room spins, but he pins his eyes on his father’s face. John looks terrified, more scared than Dean can ever remember. His mouth is moving, but the cacophony drowns out the words. Dean clamps his hands over his ears, but it doesn’t help.

“Dean! Dean, look at me. Can you hear me?” Charlie’s voice breaks through the crashing noise. Dean swings his head around and finds her crouched next to them. She leans in, gripping his arms and shaking him. He focuses on her face, on the shapes her mouth makes as she speaks. “Answer me, Dean. Are you okay?”

Dean hauls in two more shaky breaths, his chest burning, and nods. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” The words come out on a sob, and Dean realizes he’s crying. His body shakes with the strength of his sobs.

“I got you, boy. You’re okay, Dean. You’re okay.” John wrenches him away from Charlie and pulls Dean’s head into his chest. He wraps one arm around Dean’s shoulders, and the other hand comes up to cup the back of Dean’s head. Dean’s hands are balled into John’s shirt, holding on as he shakes apart.

The storm takes a long time to pass, at least for Dean. Gradually, his sobs weaken to soft snuffles against his father’s shirt and stop. John still doesn’t let go of him. He’s murmuring something, his voice deep waves of sound. It’s been a long time—years? decades?—since John hugged him. Before the accident, it had been months since John had touched him other than to correct his technique.

The awkwardness of their positions comes back to Dean at once, and he stiffens, pulling away to scoot back against the bleachers. John lets him go, yanking his arms back and scrambling to his feet. Dean folds his knees up and wraps his arms around them. Charlie is there beside him in an instant.

 “You scared the piss outta us, boy. What the hell was that all about?” John’s voice is still reedy with panic, but it’s taking its usual gruff tone.

Dean takes another deep breath and holds it for a moment. The music still plays but it’s muted. His arms and legs twitch and jump, so he wraps his arms tighter to keep them still. “I was sinking, and I couldn’t find the surface,” he mumbles.

Charlie tenses beside him. “Dean, are you sure you’re okay?”

Turning to face her, Dean blinks and asks, “What? I must’ve got dizzy or something and couldn’t figure out which way was up.”

“Dean,” she says again, her voice softening. Charlie glances up at John. Dean follows her gaze and John looks confused. “You weren’t under the water.”

Dean freezes, eyes darting back to Charlie. “What do you mean? I was floating, and then I sank under the water and got turned around. I was under for a while.”

“You went under,” John says, sitting on the bleacher beside them, “but you weren’t under for long. A couple seconds. You came up like a shot, waving your arms and yelling like a banshee.”

“I was under the water,” Dean repeats more firmly. He turns to Charlie, and his voice cracks when he asks, “Wasn’t I?”

Charlie shakes her head. “At first, yeah, but when I grabbed you, your head was above water. You were yelling that the music was killing you. From the time you went under to when I got you to the edge was maybe fifteen seconds.”

Dean’s his heart rate speeds up again. He squints at her and presses his hands to his temples, but it doesn’t stop the pain pulsing in his head. “It was longer than fifteen seconds,” he insists.

Charlie’s lips are soft against his cheek when she leans in and presses her face into his shoulder. “No, Dean, it wasn’t,” she whispers.

The rest of Dean’s arguments get lodged in his throat. What the hell is happening to him? Dean shudders, shifting so he can wrap his arms around Charlie. He turns his head to meet John’s penetrating gaze. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he says, the words razor blades in his mouth.

“We’ll go see Jody tomorrow,” John says. Dr. Jody Mills is both a friend of the family and their doctor. Family get-togethers are sometimes awkward, usually because Dean can’t figure out whether Jody and John are more than friends. “Get you straightened out,” John continues. “Pretty clear you got more shit to work out. At this rate, Santa Clara Pro Swim is gonna be a bust too. If you don’t pull your shit together, you’re gonna lose your spot on the National Team, and you can kiss Tokyo goodbye.”

And just like that, the gruff asshole who rides Dean constantly is back. Did he imagine John’s gentleness too? Sam’s psych professors would have a field day.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed. John is right, but Dean doesn’t know what to do. Panic swirls inside him for a few moments before he pushes Charlie away. “Let me up,” he says, brushing his hand across the back of her neck. “I’m going back in.”

“Like hell you are,” Charlie snaps, throwing herself at him before he can stand up.

“Dad’s right. I don’t have time for this. If I can’t swim, my whole fucking life is circling the drain, Char.”

Charlie throws her hands up and looks at John. “Tell your idiot of a son he’s not getting back in the pool today. He’s going to sit right there until we finish my splits, and then I’m going to drive him home, and he’s going to stay there the rest of the day.”

Dean leans back and lets her hold his weight against the bleachers without fighting. John will never agree. He needs Dean in fighting trim just as much as Dean does.

“She’s got a point.”

Dean gapes at his father. “Are you serious? You want me to sit here?”

John shrugs. “Something ain’t right. You’re out of the pool until we hear from Jody.”

“Dad—”

“No,” John snaps. “Don’t fucking ‘Dad’ me, boy. I ain’t stupid. You get back in now, you might really screw something up. I ain’t taking that chance.” John bends to grab his clipboard from where it sticks halfway out from under the bleachers—he must have thrown it when he rushed to help—and pushes himself up. “You,” he says, pointing one finger at Charlie, “are gonna get back in there and swim your ass off.” John turns to point at Dean. “And you’re gonna sit your ass right there. I don’t wanna see your face back in this pool ‘til we see Jody.”

Dean’s earlier excitement—and the relief and contentment—curdles in the pit of his stomach. Charlie squeezes Dean around the waist and rubs her nose against his neck before she goes. One sharp, strong embrace, and then she’s gone.

He stays seated on the floor in front of the bleachers. Dean watches her pull the goggles back over her eyes and rips his off his head. He tugs off the swim cap and drops them both onto the floor next to him. Dean runs his hands through his hair, pulling the strands until his eyes water.

The song is back, louder but not as deafening as it had been in the pool. Dean hums along, watching Charlie execute a perfect diving start from the platform, and tries to ignore the sick dread in his chest.


	9. Chapter Nine

The rumble of the big V-8 engine does little to calm Dean’s nerves. Normally, he loves any chance he gets to ride in his dad’s Impala, but today is not a normal day. Dean wasn’t able to move up his appointment with the neurologist, so John insisted he go with Dean to see Jody today.

Dean had another two dizzy spells yesterday, including one on the stairs, so he hasn’t exactly fought John on it. After Charlie dragged him home, Dean curled up in bed and tried not to freak out. She’d stayed with him for a while, but Dean had eventually kicked her out by saying he was going to sleep.

He didn’t sleep. He just laid there staring at the ceiling and replaying the clusterfuck at the pool in his head. He was fine. Everything was fine. And then it wasn’t, and Dean still isn’t sure what happened. One moment, he was calm, centered, enjoying the surrounding water, and the next he was sobbing in John’s arms.

Dean sneaks a glance at John, who is staring stoically out the windshield. They’d managed to avoid each other the rest of the day and Dean figures it was for the best. He didn’t want to talk about what happened at the pool, both in the water and afterward.

His father loves him. Dean has never questioned that. However, he’s not sure his father particularly likes him. John certainly doesn’t hug Dean or tell him he’ll be okay, and he definitely doesn’t hold Dean while he cries. Not that Dean cries often, especially where John can see him.

On top of everything else going on in the blender that is currently his brain, he doesn’t need confusion over his relationship with his father. There has been one constant in his life since he was four years old: Be the best, so he can win a medal and make the family proud. The underlying corollary—the one no one mentions—is that he owes the family an Olympic medal because he stole the opportunity from Mary.

Mary Campbell had been seven months out from winning silver at the 1992 Olympics—and training for a bid in ‘96—when a friend introduced her to John Winchester. Within two months, she was pregnant with Dean. Rather than try to come back after having him, she retired. She and John married, and she put her elementary education degree to work teaching third grade in Lawrence. Four years later, Sammy came along. Life hadn’t turned out as she imagined it, but their little family was happy.

Dean can recite the story; he’s heard it enough times. Deanna likes to remind Dean how much his mother loved her family, how happy she was with her life despite having given up her dream. The story is supposed to reassure him, but the possibility of what Mary could have accomplished if it wasn’t for Dean is always there. Mary was happy despite having Dean, not because of him.

John, on the other hand, never mentions Mary unless he’s throwing something in Dean’s face. In the months after Mary’s death at the hands of a drunk driver, John dumped the boys on Deanna and Samuel and faded to a shell of himself. Though he kept his job at a local garage, he was barely functioning, drinking his way through every evening and avoiding the boys.

Three months later—to the day—he walked into Dean’s bedroom and announced Dean would win an Olympic medal in swimming the hundred-meter butterfly. Dean didn’t know what butterflies had to do with swimming, but if it meant his dad was talking to him again, he could learn.

Dean swam, and John studied with great coaches all over the United States and passed what he learned on to Dean. John had been on the swim team in high-school, so he wasn’t starting from scratch, but he lacked the collegiate level experience most of the other coaches had. He threw himself into it, pushing himself just as hard as he pushed Dean. Eventually, the work paid off, and Dean ranked number one in the state by 10th grade and was being scouted for the Olympics.

That’s the way their relationship works. John makes Dean a great swimmer, and Dean keeps his mouth shut and does what he’s told. There have been a few hiccups—including Dean’s sexuality and Sam’s dislike of the way John treats Dean—but overall, it works. Dean has stopped expecting any outward show of his father’s love. Last night threw a wrench in the balance, and Dean isn’t sure what to do with it.

“You gonna get out?”

Dean flinches and looks over at John before glancing around the parking lot of the medical center. He gets out without responding.

The wait after they check in is longer than Dean appreciates. Even though he loves Jody, he has had it with the whole medical field. He sits back, resting his head on the wall, and closes his eyes. The song is completely different from the one stuck in his head before. This one is softer, more ethereal. The tune seems familiar, but he can’t place it.

The repeating section is longer than before, and he only makes it through three repetitions before the nurse calls his name. She takes Dean’s vitals, logs them in the computer, and tells them the doctor will be in to see them shortly.

Shortly is more like twenty minutes. Dean flips through the magazines stacked on the counter—taking a few pictures of recipes for Charlie—while John stares across the room in silence. Every few minutes, he shifts and looks at Dean, raising his eyebrows. Each time, Dean flushes and presses his hands on his thighs to keep his legs from bouncing. Dean jumps when the door opens, but John doesn’t react.

“Can’t say I’m happy to see you two,” Jody says, pushing the door shut behind her. She’d cut her dark hair into a pixie style sometime since the last time Dean saw her, but her expression is as kind as ever.

When Dean was a kid, his family being friends with his doctor had seemed cool. Over the years, he has realized Jody may be more than a friend to his dad. Sometimes, Dean wonders if Jody had anything to do with his dad putting his life back together. It’s been nineteen years; neither of them has come clean, and Dean isn’t asking.

“Guess you saw the reports from the hospital,” John says, tugging the magazine out of Dean’s hands and throwing it on the counter.

“And from the neurologist this week.”

John gives a sharp nod. “Kid had an attack or something in the pool yesterday. Flopping around, thinking he was drowning even though he was above water. Had to drag him out.” Dean is grateful he leaves out the part about Dean sobbing on the pool deck.

Jody looks straight at Dean. “That what happened?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean responds, meeting her eyes. “Coulda swore it was a minute or two, but Charlie and dad said it was only a couple seconds.”

Jody tuts and pulls up the report from the neurologist on the screen. “That happening often? Losing time, I mean?”

“Not really,” Dean says. “Some dizziness and I’m kinda fidgety. I told the doctor all this on Monday.”

Jody flips to the end of the report and looks up at Dean. “Humor me.”

Dean holds back a sigh. “Like I said, dizziness, fidgeting. I lose track of where I am sometimes, lose stuff in the house. Headaches off and on. Nothing like what happened yesterday.”

“Says here there’s a possibility of acquired savant syndrome and a follow-up appointment with Dr. Harvelle?”

“What the hell is that and who is Dr. Harvelle?” John barks.

Dean freezes. “It’s not a big deal, dad.”

“Sounds like a big deal.”

Jody slaps her hand on the table. “Get your britches out of a bunch, John,” she says, fixing John with a piercing stare. “It’s just a fancy way of saying people with traumatic brain injury sometimes develop special skills.”

“Skills like walking into walls? Because he’s got that down pat.”

Jody stares at him blankly until John looks away. “Did you get up early this morning to practice being an ass before you drove down here, or have you been saving up?” she counters. “Give the boy a chance to talk.”

John clenches his jaw and slumps back in his seat.

Dean clears his throat and works his jaw to drum up saliva in his dry mouth. “I, ah, can play the piano,” he says, keeping his eyes pinned on Jody.

“What the hell does that mean?” John snaps.

“I suspect it means exactly what he said,” Jody says, laying her hand on John’s arm.

Dean looks at where Jody’s hand rests on John’s shirtsleeve, then raises his eyes to her face and nods. “Ah, yeah, I had this song stuck in my head after the accident, and the other day I realized I could play it on the piano.”

John’s lips part in astonishment. Other than Dean’s swimming, he hasn’t been an involved father, but even he knows Dean can’t play the piano.

Jody cuts him off before John can respond. “That’s fascinating, Dean,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Dr. Harvelle does great work.”

“He don’t need a shrink.” John’s jaw is set, and he bites the words out through clenched teeth. “He needs to get his shit straightened out so we can get back to work. Nationals are in two months, and at the rate we’re going, we might as well just forfeit now. There goes everything we’ve worked for.”

Jody’s eyes snap with anger. “He’s not doing it on purpose, John. That was a panic attack he had yesterday. There’s no physical reason I can see, but who knows what’s going on in his brain. Between the traumatic experience and the TBI, this is nothing to mess with.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” John deflates, slumping back in the chair and bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Dean has never been keen on sitting around listening to people talk about him like he isn’t there, but he’s used to it. His eyes flick back and forth between John and Jody during the exchange, and when he meets Jody’s eyes, she gives him a warm smile.

“You do exactly what he’s been doing,” she says. “Healing, seeing his doctors”—she gives Dean a pointed look—”and being honest with them about what’s happening. Keep the appointment at the college and your follow up with the neurologist. And try not to be too hard on yourself, Dean. You’ve got to give yourself time to heal. It’s frustrating when you’ve got all these demands, but you won’t meet them by pushing yourself.”

“And swimming?” Dean asks, looking at his dad out of the corner of his eye.

“Let me check out your chart and give you a once over,” Jody says, spinning to tap something out on the keyboard. She pages through the reports with a soft hum. “There’s nothing obvious here to prevent you. As long as the exam checks out, I don’t see why not. But use your brains. Take it easy. No swimming by yourself, but that should go without saying. If anything doesn’t feel right, don’t do it. You’ll only make matters worse by pushing yourself.”

Jody turns to John, and her expression hardens. “And you aren’t doing him any favors pushing him either. Back off. If you can’t get the need to be a hard-ass out of your system, turn it on that little girl you’ve got training with him. She can take it.”

John doesn’t answer, but Dean watches the way his eyes follow Jody when she turns to grab the equipment to do a basic exam.

As expected, nothing turns up in Jody’s exam to explain the incident yesterday. She pats Dean on the back as they’re leaving the exam room and pulls him into a quick hug. Dean lets himself enjoy her soft, powdery perfume. He sometimes wonders what it would’ve been like to grow up with Jody. He’d never try to replace his mom, but no one except his grandma stands up to John the way Jody does. With Jody, John is less likely to dig in his heels, and Dean wonders if she would’ve smoothed out the rough edges.

The ride home is just as awkward as the ride there. John’s jaw remains clenched for the first half of the trip, and his knuckles are white from his grip on the steering wheel. Finally, he reaches out and turns down the radio Dean had turned on to drown out the music in his head. “What did you mean about playing the piano?”

Dean turns to stare out the side window, but he knows John will keep badgering him until Dean gives him something. “Last weekend, when you kicked me out of the pool, I wandered into this music shop downtown, and there was a piano. That’s all.”

John brings the big car to a stop at a red light and turns, his expression unreadable. Dean is reminded of how John looked during those first few years after Mary’s death–like there was a gaping hole inside he couldn’t fill. “And you played it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all?”

Dean clenches his hands into fists on his lap. “What do you want me to say, dad?”

John’s eyes swing back to the road as the light turns green, and they pull away. “You gonna go back?”

“Why would I?” His response isn’t truthful. Now that he knows the piano is there, the thought of playing it has become an obsession. The only thing stopping him is the way he made a complete fool of himself. Dean shouldn’t care what the clerk thinks. The guy was a weirdo, anyway. But he was a smoking hot weirdo, and Dean doesn't know what to say if he goes back.

“Because you’ve got a way of doing things to screw up your whole life.”

Dean grinds his teeth. Everything always comes back to this. One mistake, and John has never let him forget it. “Did you hear what Jody said? I’m not doing this on purpose. And I sure as shit am not trying to screw up my life. I’ve worked hard too, you know. You’re not the only one who’s gonna lose something if I can’t swim.”

John doesn’t answer until they get to the house. He pulls the car up the driveway and comes to a stop behind Charlie’s Rabbit. Before Dean can get out, he says, “I’m pulling you out of the June Pro Swim. We already forfeited next week, but there’s no point in stressing over a regional meet. You gotta get your shit together for Nationals.”

“I’m trying.”

John shoves his door open. “Try harder.”

 Dean sits in the car for a long time, unable to work up the energy to get out and go in the house. Charlie will want to know how things went, and Dean is tired of talking about it.

The song in his head has changed again—into something low and sad—so Dean focuses on it instead. He taps the slow rhythm out on the door handle.

Suddenly, he freezes. The music sounds familiar, like an old pop song from high school.

Dean yanks his phone from his pocket and pulls up his music app to search for the song. As soon as he hits play, the same melody repeating in his head comes through the phone’s speaker. His hands shake when he turns it off.

Does this mean he knows the other songs even if he doesn’t remember them? The guy at the music store had called the music Dean played something, but Dean can’t remember what he’d said. He types in every possible variation he can think of, but nothing comes up.

Dean looks up at the fancy facade of the house through the car window. He should go keep Charlie company and forget all this, but he can’t quite make himself. Instead, he gets out of the car and walks down the driveway towards the street.

He doesn’t realize he plans to find the music store again until he’s on the steps of the aquatic center. Dean tries to retrace his steps, but he makes a few wrong turns and ends up in a part of town he doesn’t recognize. He opens the navigation app, but his fingers hover over the screen. How is he supposed to find the place when he doesn’t remember the name, or where it was?

Dean stops at a café on the corner and buys a coffee, caffeine be damned. There are little round tables set up on the sidewalk out front, and Dean sits with his coffee to think. He closes his eyes and imagines himself on the street across from the music store. There’s a name in faded blue letters on the window above the drum set, but he can’t remember what it was.

The afternoon sun hurts Dean’s eyes when he opens them and takes another sip of his coffee. He tries to pull up the music that had been playing in his head that day. After a few false starts, the familiar notes echo. Dean closes his eyes again and lets himself go. In his mind, he’s standing on the street, and the blue letters fade into focus. _Mackey’s._

A quick search shows he’s gone too far. Four blocks over and two back, and he finally stands on the sidewalk in front of the store again. The piano is still visible through the big plate glass window, and Dean’s fingers itch to play it. He peers through the glass, looking for the clerk from earlier. What are the chances he’s here today? With that thought, Dean pulls the door open and walks inside.

Dean blinks in the murky haze of the store and looks around. A skinny guy with a mullet—hair short on top and flowing down his back—is lounging behind the counter. There’s no one else in the store. Thankfully, the 90s grunge music is a much more reasonable volume today.

“I was, ah, wondering if I could play the piano?” Dean asks, motioning toward the sleek black baby grand.

The guy behind the counter shrugs. “Knock yourself out, man. No one’s ever interested in that thing.” He turns back to the magazine he was looking at on the counter.

The polished wood is smooth and cool, and the bench squeaks when Dean slides onto it. He rests his hands on the keys, his heart beating a wild staccato inside his chest. What if it was a fluke—some weird coincidence—and he’ll never be able to do it again?

Dean’s eyelids flutter closed, and he calls up the music inside his head. Not the pop song from earlier, but not the song from the first week either. This song is slow, plodding, melancholy but with a sweet edge to it. Dean breathes in through his nose—the incense burning his sinuses—and presses the first key.

The second key comes almost immediately, followed by the third, and then he’s soaring. He keeps his eyes closed, letting his hands dance over the keys and humming along. There’s a harmony—note and counter note—inside his head like an orchestra playing along with a soloist.

Dean loses track of time the same way he did the first day. When the last crisp, clear tone rings through the store, he buries his hands in his hair and presses his forehead to the cool polished wood. Dean takes a few deep breaths to steady himself and shoves the bench back a few inches. When he turns, he almost jumps out of his skin.

The guy from Saturday is leaning on a tall stack of cardboard boxes in the corner. He’s watching Dean with a steady, piercing stare, and when he sees Dean notice him, he raises his hands—palms up—as if in supplication.

“Are you going to run away if I talk to you?” The silver balls framing his eyebrow glint in the overhead lights when he squints at Dean. His T-shirt today is purple with the words _I want to believe_ on the front, and his black jeans hug his thighs, narrowing to clunky combat boots.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. From this close, the guy's eyes are a brighter blue than Dean realized. Thick lashes fan his cheeks when he blinks, and Dean’s mouth goes dry for a different reason. “I’m not gonna run away.” He runs his tongue over his lips and asks, “Do you know what that was? That I just played?”

The guy—Castiel?—narrows his eyes. “Is this a test?”

Dean sighs. “No, I just don’t know what it is.”

“It’s Federico Mompou’s _Secreto_. How do you play a song you don’t know?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Castiel points his shirt and smirks. “Try me.”

Dean shrugs. “I hit my head in the swimming pool two weeks ago and woke up a piano virtuoso.”

Castiel’s eyes light up. “No way.” He drops onto the bench next to Dean. “You’re like the guy on Dateline. He bashed his head in at work or something, and now he draws sick fractals. Shit even mathematicians can’t figure out, but they’re perfect. It’s what? Like savant syndrome or something?”

“Acquired savant syndrome,” Dean says, shifting on the bench. Castiel’s warm thigh presses against his, and he can smell the sweet honey scent of the man’s shampoo. Dean realizes it’s been two weeks since he even had the energy to jerk off. Castiel isn’t Dean’s usual type, but even with his piercings and tattoos, Dean would have to be blind not to see he’s hot.

“You really never played before? Not at all?”

Dean screws up his lips and shakes his head. “Not at all. There’s music in my head all the time, and when I sit down at the piano, I just know which keys to press. I couldn’t even tell you what notes they are.”

“They’re songs you know?” Castiel is practically vibrating with excitement, and his leg bumps Dean’s again.

 A sudden flare of heat shoots through Dean. “Not really. I recognized one today from when I was a teenager, but most of them are classical music or something. I don’t remember hearing them before.”

Castiel runs one hand through his already wild dark hair and tugs on the strands. “That’s fucking sick. You’re amazing. I thought for sure you were classically trained.”

“It’s cool, I guess,” Dean allows. He hadn’t stopped to think about how weird his new talent is. It might be a neat trick, but he would trade it away in a heartbeat if he could just get back in the pool.

Castiel shifts again and now the way his leg presses against Dean’s feels intentional. “Hey, play the pop song, the one you said you recognized.” Castiel freezes and looks at where his hand rests on Dean’s forearm. “I mean, if you want. Raph says I get too intense and scare people away. Ah, sorry.”

Dean likes the pressure of Castiel’s calloused fingers on his bare skin. The touch isn’t meant to be reassuring and doesn’t remind him how helpless he is. Rather, it’s like being at the club, like being connected to something or someone other than himself. “It’s okay,” Dean says sincerely. “Can’t hurt to see if I can.”

Dean lays his fingers on the keys, and the melody comes much quicker this time. Halfway through, Castiel starts picking out a harmony to go along with it on the keys to Dean’s left. The arrangement he hears in his head isn’t exactly the same, but it fits. Dean finds himself smiling. Laughter bubbles up, and for the first time since the accident, he’s not terrified of what it means, how he’s broken, and whether he’ll ever be fixed.

When Dean finishes the song, he immediately launches into another. Castiel doesn’t know it, and he calls Ash—the guy with the mullet—out of the back room to see if he recognizes the tune. “Sounds like Dylan’s _Abandoned Love_ but it’s not quite right,” Ash says, stroking his chin. “A different arrangement maybe? Whatever it is, you’re good.”

Dean’s response is cut off as the door flies open with a crash. They look toward the door, and Dean’s eyes widen at the sight of a furious Charlie. He shifts away from Castiel as discreetly as he can.

“What is wrong with you?” she yells, stalking over and poking Dean in the center of his chest. “I’ve been worried sick. What the hell, Dean?”

“Charlie, I was just—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “I called your grandmother. I even called Sam. You can’t just wander off.”

Dean takes a deep breath and holds it before blowing out. “I didn’t wander off. Last time I checked I don’t need a babysitter.”

Charlie doesn’t back down in the slightest. She pulls her diminutive height up even taller and looms over Dean. “You do when you tell the doctor you get lost and don’t know where you are. I had to track the GPS on your phone to find you.”

“You tracked my phone?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d answer the damn thing.”

Dean pulls his phone out and unlocks it. There are dozens of missed calls and texts from Charlie, his grandparents, Sam, and even his dad. “I didn’t realize it was on silent.”

“Yeah, well, it is.” Charlie turns and stomps towards the door. “I’ll be in the car.” The glass rattles when she slams it.

Dean’s face burns when he meets Castiel’s eyes. “Ah, I guess I better go.” He hasn’t felt so much like a scolded child since the day his father picked him up from the police station.

Castiel raises one eyebrow. “Yeah, I’d say so. Maybe next time, tell her where you’re going before you show up here.”

Dean is halfway to the car before he realizes he never denied he’ll be back.


	10. Chapter Ten

Five days of awkward silence—of Dean walking out of the room as soon as Charlie walks in—and he's still pissed. He hasn't been going to the pool, or really anywhere, since the day Charlie pulled him out of the music store. Instead, he lays in his room listening to music. Charlie had tried to talk to him about it on the way home, and has tried another dozen times since then, but Dean tunes her out every time. Things are shitty enough without Charlie getting on his case, too.

Dean shifts in his seat and looks out the window at the impressive brick building. He'd been ready to take a cab to his appointment at the University psych office until Charlie came into the kitchen and plucked the phone out of his hand. "Don't be an asshole," she'd said. "I'm taking you." It was easier to get in the car than to fight with her.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Charlie's voice is soft and low. It's probably meant to be soothing, but it sounds patronizing.

"I don't need you to hold my hand." Dean pushes the door open and gets out without looking at her.

"I'll wait here."

Dean rolls his eyes before turning back. "I can take a cab or catch a bus."

Charlie shakes her head, her short red curls bobbing around her face. "That's stupid. There's nothing going on until training this afternoon. I'll wait."

"Fine. Whatever." Dean slams the door on her response and crosses the parking lot. Despite the sun, it isn't particularly warm for an afternoon in late April, so he’s glad he pulled on a flannel before he left the house.

Dean follows the signs down the hallway and steps through heavy wooden doors into an attractive waiting room. Soft beige carpeting and heavy wood chairs make it look more like a parlor than a professional office. A young blond woman sits at a desk in the corner. She smiles when Dean approaches her, an appreciative glint in her eyes.

"I have an appointment with Dr. Harvelle?" he says, pulling up his interview-and-photoshoot smile.

The woman's ponytail swings when she leans back in her chair to peek into a room off to the left. "She'll be right out. Have a seat until she's ready." She motions to the heavily padded chair next to the desk instead of the ones that make up the waiting area.

Dean almost declines, but he notices the stacks of textbooks piled around the desk. He's no stranger to looking for any and every excuse to get out of studying. "You a student?" he asks, sitting and motioning toward the books.

She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "Grad student. Don't know why I ever thought following in mom's footsteps was a good idea. Psychology is hard."

"Mom?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry." She holds out her hand. "Jo Harvelle." Although her hand is tiny in his, her grip is strong. "Your mom being the chair of your department should get you some perks, but I swear they're harder on me because of her."

"Or possibly"—Dean looks up as a dark-haired woman enters the room—"they've known you your whole life, so they're aware of what you're capable of."

Jo rolls her eyes. "If you say so."

"If you're done harassing my patient, I'm fairly certain you have a ten-page paper due tomorrow." She smiles when Jo harrumphs and turns back to her books. "Ellen Harvelle," she says, holding out her hand. "You must be Dean."

Her grip is even firmer than her daughters. "Yeah, uh, nice to meet you."

"Come on in and let's get started." Dr. Harvelle leads him into the first room on the left and closes the door behind them. "Have a seat wherever."

Similar to the waiting room, the space is styled more like a sitting room than an office. The walls are a soothing pale blue and lamps are scattered around the room instead of the industrial overhead lighting common across campus. There's no couch, no desk, and no way to tell what seat is hers, so Dean takes the overstuffed recliner closest to the door.

Dr. Harvelle nods, whether in approval or simple acknowledgment, and takes the wingback chair opposite him. "I don't stand on formality here, so you'll call me Ellen," she says, picking up a folder from the squat table between them and flipping it open. "Let's get right to it then. Since we partner with the hospital, Dr. Harris forwarded your records. He suspects acquired savant syndrome. I assume I don't have to explain what that is?"

Dean shakes his head, his eyes flicking to the folder in her lap. "Dr. Harris explained."

Ellen narrows her eyes. "Tell me what you think it is."

"My brain is jacked up from the accident and it's compensating by making weird connections. Because the part of my brain that was damaged is where auditory and spatial memory is kept, I can suddenly play the piano."

Ellen throws back her head and laughs. "That's as good an explanation as any." She cocks her head to the side and studies him for a moment. "And you believe that?"

Dean shrugs. "All I know is I've never played the piano, and now it's all I think about."

"Acquired savant syndrome is incredibly rare. I've been studying traumatic brain injury for almost two decades and I've only met two people who qualify for the diagnosis. There are only about thirty known cases." Ellen scans the papers in the folder. "From everything I see here, you may well be one of them."

"Can you fix it?"

"Fix it?" Ellen makes a face.

"Yeah. Can you fix whatever went wrong in my head? Playing the piano is a neat trick, but it's useless. I need to swim."

Ellen purses her lips and releases a slow breath through her nose. "It doesn't work that way, Dean. Recovery from a traumatic brain injury can take years, and many people never return to preinjury functioning. This isn't about fixing you. It's about helping you through the process."

Dean slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes. He should have known better than to pin his hopes on this. He listens while she flips through his chart.

After a few moments, she hums and the chair creaks when she shifts. "From what I see here, Dr. Harris already cleared you to swim. Did something happen?"

Dean holds his breath for a few seconds before opening his eyes. As much as he doesn't want to talk about it, there's no point denying it. "I can't swim." Dean pauses and reconsiders. "Well, it's not that I can't swim. I don't know if I can swim. Every time I get in the pool, I have a panic attack or something."

It only takes a few moments for Dean to recount the story, but his heart rate spikes as he remembers the sensation of being trapped under the water. "I've gone back and tried since then, but I freak out before my feet even hit the bottom."

Ellen flips a few pages. "There is a lot of pressure on you to get back in the pool."

Dean laughs, but it rings hollow. "You could say that."

Ellen looks up from the pages to meet his eyes. "You sound angry."

Is he angry? He hadn't thought so. All the pressure and the fighting and never being good enough is just exhausting. Dean takes a deep breath. Maybe he is angry. "I guess I am," he concedes, dropping his eyes. A loose thread on the seam of his jeans catches his attention. He picks at it and continues without looking back up. "Everyone acts like I'm broken or faking it. My whole life is circling the drain and there's nothing I can do about it."

Dean finally looks up. "There's a swim meet this weekend, but I can't go. Charlie, my teammate, dropped out too because she says she'd rather stay home and take care of me. Like I can't even take care of myself. I'm not only fucking up my life; I'm fucking up hers, too."

Ellen doesn't immediately respond. She looks at him for a long uncomfortable moment as if she's seeing way more than Dean wants her to. "The thought of letting people down scares you."

"No shit. I've got a pretty good track record at it."

One eyebrow arches. "You're ranked, what? Third nationally and fifth in the world? And you've competed in the Olympics. An achievement 99% of athletes only dream of. That sounds like a different kind of track record."

"I came home without a medal."

Ellen sighs. "If you're so good at fucking everything up"—she smiles when his eyes go wide—"why don't you quit? Any doctor would declare you medically exempt with your injuries. What would it mean for you to stop?"

"I'm not quitting," Dean snaps. All that work, countless hours of training and competing, down the drain because he can't pull his shit together? No way. "I'm just taking a break to get better so I can be back on track to show at Nationals. My ranking will drop, but I should be able to stay on the team."

"Okay," she says, holding up her hands. "You're swimming. Got it." Ellen tilts her head toward his lap. "Can you tell me about the rhythm you're tapping out on your leg?"

Dean looks down and realizes he's tapping the rhythm for the song playing in his head. The tune is another one he doesn't recognize even though he's spent hours over the last few days scouring his playlist. He clasps his hands together and clears his throat before he answers. "There's always a song playing in my head. That's the one playing now."

"How do you feel when you're at the piano?"

Dean considers the question for a moment. "Scared? Or not scared, but nervous? Excited. Butterflies, I guess. That's before I start playing. And then I get lost in it, and I can't remember how long I was playing."

"You enjoy it."

Dean nods slowly, realization dawning. "Yeah, I guess I do. The music in my head—once I stopped fighting it—is soothing. It's always there to keep me company. And when I'm playing, I'm not focusing on anything else."

"No one is judging you."

His eyes snap up to hers. A wrenching tightness gathers in his chest, and he can barely breathe around it. "I don't need to worry about winning. I only need to play."

Ellen flicks the folder closed with a soft whoosh of air and leans forward, her eyes softening. "I'd like you to consider coming back, Dean. Regardless of your new talent, I think I can help you."

Dean's lips twitch and his leg bounces with the rhythm without his permission. The melody in his head gets louder. "Help me figure out why I can't get in the water?"

"Maybe," she says, placing the folder back on the table. "Or at least help you figure out what to do next."

Dean has never thought of himself as the type of person who needs to see a therapist, but he’s beginning to wonder what type that is, anyway. Ellen gives him paperwork to fill out and they make another appointment for next week.

Jo is gone from the front desk when Ellen walks him to the door. Dean pauses in the hallway. Charlie is waiting in the parking lot—out the front door—but Dean turns toward the back of the building instead. She’ll want to hear what they talked about and when his next appointment is and whether it helped. Even though his head is clearer than when he went in, Dean can’t face her.

Dean slips out the back door and follows the sidewalk towards the opposite side of campus, ignoring the roiling guilt in the pit of his stomach. Once he's far enough away that she won't spot him if she drives around the block, Dean sends Charlie a text saying he'll get a cab home. He follows that with another text asking her to give him some space. Turning off his phone is pointless now that she knows where the music store is, but he does it anyway.

Rather than calling a cab, Dean catches a bus headed toward that side of town and gets off a few blocks from the music store. The short walk calms the butterflies in his stomach. He remembers the smoothness of the keys under his fingers and Castiel’s welcoming grin. If asked, he’d be hard-pressed to say which he’s looking forward to more.

Dean pushes the heavy glass door open without pausing and looks around. Ash stands by a stack of amps with two teenage boys. He nods in Dean’s direction and jerks his head toward the piano with a grin. Castiel doesn’t seem to be around, and Dean’s shoulders slump as he takes his seat.

Ash appears beside him when he’s only a few bars into the song. “He’s up in his apartment,” he says, resting his hip against the piano.

Dean’s hands falter on the keys, and he catches his stuttered breath before continuing. He looks at Ash out of the corner of his eye. “I didn’t come to see him.”

Ash tilts his head. “Okay,” he says with a smirk. The song fills the silence for a few beats before he adds, “Should I call him?”

Resigned to being transparent, Dean swallows a sigh. He nods and loses himself in the music again. By the time Castiel slides onto the bench next to him, he’s halfway through _Hey Jude_.

“Ash and I were taking bets on whether we’d see you back here.”

Dean lets the song come to an end before he turns to Castiel. The quarter note dripping from Castiel’s right eye catches Dean's gaze, and he tries to imagine what his dad would say. Dick or no dick, he couldn’t pick someone more likely to send John into fits than Castiel. “I wanted to apologize for the scene last time.”

Castiel waves his hand. “Don’t sweat it. You’re not the first guy to be pulled out of here by his girlfriend.”

“Charlie's not my girlfriend,” Dean blurts. “I’m gay.” Heat spreads into his cheeks when Castiel’s lips curve into a smile.

“I was hoping you were going to say that.” Castiel looks around the room before pushing himself off the bench and holding out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Dean allows Castiel to pull him to his feet, swaying before Castiel steadies him by wrapping his hands around Dean’s biceps. Warmth seeps through Dean’s flannel. “Go where?”

“To get something to eat. I'm starving.”

Ash waves from behind the counter as Castiel pulls Dean out onto the sidewalk. Compared to earlier, his plain grey t-shirt and blue jeans are downright conventional. Dean is contemplating whether the sandals are genius or ridiculous when they arrive at a small diner tucked between two empty storefronts a few doors down. Faded white letters, barely visible, spell out _Jim’s_ on the door. A tiny bell tinkles when Castiel pulls it open.

“Welcome to _The Lamppost,_ ” Castiel says, holding the door so Dean can enter before him. He steps in as Dean passes, brushing his hip against Dean’s, and rests his hand on Dean's lower back. The touch is intimate, and Dean's skin tingles where heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt. Castiel keeps his hand there and guides Dean to a booth in the corner. He slides in opposite Dean.

“ _The Lamppost?”_ Dean looks around the dingy room with its faded green Formica tabletops and cracked vinyl booths.

Castiel snatches the folded paper menu out of Dean’s hands as soon as he picks it up and shrugs. “Peggy and Jim’s granddaughter is a Narnia fan. This place used to be called _Jim’s,_ but Sheri said it was the lamppost. Part of two worlds, or something like that, and it stuck.” He waves at the heavy-set waitress topping off coffees across the room. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

“As if he isn’t still a kid,” the waitress says, appearing beside their table. She props the coffee pot against her hip and pats her salt-and-pepper hair where it’s escaping from the low ponytail.

“Twenty-seven is an adult, Peggy. I have a car payment now.”

Peggy laughs, winking at Dean like they’re in on a joke together. “A car payment. Do you hear that? Talk to me when you’re forty, Castiel. Until then, you’re a kid.” She shakes her head. “The regular?”

“For both of us.”

Peggy narrows her eyes and looks back at Dean with an appraising glint. “Sure is a cute one.”

“He’s a friend.” Castiel tilts his head and flashes Dean a smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the teardrop note dances.

Peggy nods and pats Dean on the arm. “Keep one eye open with this one,” she says, cocking her head at Castiel. “He’s a charmer. Gotta keep your wits about you.”

Dean bites back a laugh. “I’m trying my best, ma’am.”

“Sometimes that’s all you can do.” Peggy gives him another wink and heads back across the small room, stopping at another table on the way to top off their coffees.

“She forgets I’m not in elementary school anymore,” Castiel says when she passes through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Dean chuckles, not sure what to make of everything. “She seems to think you’re trying to get in my pants.”

Castiel gives a snort of laughter. “She does know me,” he concedes with a lopsided grin.

Heat spreads up the back of Dean’s neck and across his cheeks. Though he’s no stranger to being hit on, this is different. Sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights with Castiel’s knee pressed against his, it feels more like a date than a hookup. A date is something Dean hasn’t done in a very long time. He folds his hands to stop them from tapping out a rhythm on the table and fumbles for something to say. “You play the piano.”

Castiel looks at Dean’s folded hands before slowly raising his eyes back to Dean’s face. “A little. Guitar, drums, and a pretty mean trumpet every once in a while.”

“Now you’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not,” Castiel says with a wide smile. “ _Mary had a Little Lamb_ and half a Miles Davis song is all I can manage, but I can play it.” Blue eyes light up again. “Hey, we should see if you can play any other instruments. There's a bunch at the store you can try out.”

Dean remembers the way his fingers itch for the piano keys, and he shakes his head. “We can try, I guess, but I doubt it. The piano is weird enough.”

Castiel squints at him. “It would be awesome to be able to play any song I knew. Rehearsals would go a lot quicker.”

“You should probably skip the traumatic brain injury and almost drowning, though.” As soon as the words are out, Dean could kick himself. If this is the quality of his flirting, it’s probably a good thing he hasn’t had to rely on it to get laid.

 Castiel presses his lips together in a thin line and slouches back against the booth. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” Dean says quickly, holding back a sigh. “I guess I’m just tired of everyone making a big deal out of it. It’s a pretty useless trick in exchange for fucking my whole life over.”

The woman at the table across from them drops her utensils on the plate with a clatter and Dean flinches. Castiel nudges his knee with his own until Dean looks back at him. “It’s not a consolation prize. You could do that, and now you can do this.”

Dean picks up his napkin and begins balling the paper between his fingers. There aren’t many people in the diner besides them, but the murmur of voices rises and falls in his head like the cadence of a song. Dean squeezes his eyes shut to try to push it away. The melody line fades, and he opens his eyes to find Castiel staring at him.

“It would be a lot more helpful if I could actually do anything. I’m pretty fucking useless right now,” he replies, bitterness seeping into his tone.

Instead of arguing like Dean expects, like Charlie and Sam and Deanna have done every time he starts down this path, Castiel grins. “You’re here keeping me company because of it. Not so useless.”

At first, Dean is incredulous that Castiel would make light of his condition, but after a moment, he realizes Castiel is right. As much as everything is fucked, if it wasn’t for the accident, he would have never met Castiel. He wouldn’t be sitting in this run-down diner enjoying the closest thing to a date he’s had in years. And he definitely is enjoying it.

Dean pushes back against Castiel’s leg with his knee and smiles. Not a useless talent after all.

Castiel turns the conversation to music, and Dean is happy to play along. Despite his lack of musical ability before the accident, music has always played a big role in Dean’s life. They find they have a lot of musical interests in common, and they’re debating the best Led Zeppelin album when Peggy stops in front of the booth with a heavily laden tray.

Peggy sets two over-sized plates between them, both heaped with sweet potato fries and the weirdest hamburger Dean has ever seen. Instead of a bun, the burger is smashed between two halves of a glazed donut. Dean's eyes widen when she puts two chocolate milkshakes beside the plates.

"You boys need anything else?”

"Looks great, Peggy," Castiel says. "Tell Jim I'm sending that application in for Diners, Drive-ins and Dives."

Peggy laughs. "Sure thing, honey. And I'll just sit back and watch him ream you out for it." She pats Castiel on the arm and heads back to the kitchen.

As soon as she's out of earshot, Dean releases the breath he was holding. “Holy shit. I can’t eat this.”

“Why not?” Castiel dips a fry into the dish of syrup on the edge of his plate and shoves it in his mouth.

“This is more sugar than I normally eat in a month.”

Castiel grins and picks up his burger with two hands, taking a huge bite and letting the grease run down his chin. “Perfect cure for a hangover or when you’ve got the munchies,” he says with his mouth still half-full. When Dean still hesitates, Castiel bumps his knee with his own. “Go ahead, live a little. It’s not a gateway drug. Promise.”

If John bitched about Charlie’s organic pastries, Dean doesn't know what he would say about this monstrosity. Grease runs down his hand when he picks up the gooey, dripping mess and gingerly takes a bite. The familiar flavors of a good burger flood his mouth, heightened by the sweetness of the donut. Despite the weirdness of the combination, it’s good. Dean swallows and takes another bite before setting it back on his plate. His face is sticky with grease and sugar.

“See, it’s good. Now eat up. Ash is off in an hour and he’ll kill me if I'm not back for my shift.” Castiel reaches across the table and steals one of Dean’s fries. He dips it in his milkshake and sucks the ice cream off—keeping eye contact with Dean the whole time—before eating it.

Dean shifts to ease the growing tightness of his jeans and focuses his attention back on the food, ignoring Castiel’s soft chuckle. He eats a few fries and takes a swallow of milkshake, cold cream slipping down his throat and making it hard to ignore the guilt roiling in his stomach. The grueling training takes so much energy he doesn’t have to watch every bite he takes, but that doesn’t mean he should fill his body with junk calories. After eating clean—with the occasional treat—for so long, it’s impossible to convince himself the indulgence is okay.

Castiel polishes off half his burger before he slouches back against the booth and wipes the grease from his face with the back of his hand. He picks up his milkshake and swirls the straw around with his tongue, a half smirk curving his lips. “You should come back after my shift is over.”

Dean freezes with a fry halfway to his mouth and raises his eyes to Castiel’s face. “Why would I do that?” he asks, pretending he doesn't see the heat in the other man's direct, challenging gaze.

“Because there isn’t enough time for everything I want to do with you before I have to be back.”

Dean’s heart trips and his breath catches. Desire pools low in his groin, reminding him that despite everything else, he's not completely broken. He can't deny he wants what Castiel is offering. The temptation of losing himself for a while is hard to ignore.

When Dean doesn’t respond, Castiel places his cup beside his plate and leans in, propping his elbows on the edge. He narrows his eyes for a moment before smiling again. “Getting lost is easy when you're the youngest of six kids. The oldest has all the attention.”

A shuddering sense of unease settles over Dean. “Okay?”

“My parents love me in an abstract way,” Castiel continues, his gaze still pinned on Dean. “When I was sixteen, I quit school and moved in with Ash and Raph. By then, the band was already pretty popular on the club circuit, and taking over at their parents’ music store was simple. I was probably gone for three months before mom and dad even noticed.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up. “It doesn't have to be hard to reach out and take what you want,” he says. “Though figuring out what that is isn't easy”—he leans back, dropping his eyes to Dean’s mouth—“even when you’re Dean Winchester.”

Dean freezes. For a moment, he isn’t sure what to say, what reaction Castiel is expecting. Pro-swimming doesn't exactly make him an A-list celebrity, but he’s been recognized before. Especially in Lawrence. Olympic swimming might not be front page news, but the Campbells are a big deal even in a city this size.

“Wasn’t hard to figure out,” Castiel continues, ignoring Dean’s silence. “You said you hit your head in the pool, and your little spitfire friend called you Dean. I didn’t recognize you at first, but I remember seeing a picture of you with her. She’s memorable.” He dips another fry and takes small, measured bites this time.

“So you know who I am,” Dean says, pushing his barely touched food away. “I’m not hiding.” The bravado curdles in his stomach though. Even with things a mess, Castiel could still wreak havoc in Dean's life if he wanted.

Castiel raises one eyebrow. “I’m not threatening you and I'm not going to out you. Things go smoother when all the cards are on the table.”

Dean sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Okay. Consider them on the table.”

There’s silence for several long moments. Castiel takes another bite of his hamburger and washes it down with a mouthful of milkshake. The silence stretches until Dean is ready to snap. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” Castiel finally says, pushing the plate of food back toward Dean. “You just, I don’t know, you seem like you’re looking for something. I wanted you to know when you find it, you’re allowed to reach out and take it.”

There isn’t anything Dean can say to that. Letting himself acknowledge—let alone take—the things he wants has never been an option. Everything is so much more confusing now. They finish their meals in silence, but when Castiel presses his leg against Dean’s, Dean doesn’t move away.


	11. Chapter Eleven

The music swells through Dean’s headphones, a wave crashing over him and towing him under the surface. Dean’s fingers dance over invisible keys in the tousled sheets. His eyelids flutter open, and he blinks against the evening light filtering through his closed blinds. The sliver of light sends ice picks of pain through his head. He closes his eyes again to focus on the music. The notes inside his head are indistinguishable from those crashing in his ears.

Another week of appointments. Another week of crushing looks—sympathetic from Charlie and frustrated from his father—and concerned calls from Sam. Even his grandparents stopped by to cheer him up, but it didn’t work. Dean is slipping away. The neurologist hadn’t been able to tell him anything more than he’s healing.

That doesn’t do Dean any good when he still can’t get in the water. In fact, whatever is going on is getting worse. Even water on his face in the shower triggers terrifying tightness in his chest and screaming in his ears. Dr. Harvelle pushes and prods him into imagining never swimming again, but Dean can’t bring himself to even consider it.

Dean has only gotten out of bed for the bare necessities for the last two days. There’s no point in going to the pool to torture himself with something he can’t have. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his failure every time John looks at him. Dean is careful to make sure John isn’t around when he leaves his room, and he hasn’t seen his dad since they saw Jody. The tightness in his chest is still crushing.

Charlie isn’t as easy to avoid. Dean isn’t mad anymore, but he still doesn’t want to talk to her. She has an unerring sense of when Dean is up and corners him in the kitchen or when he’s leaving the house to go to his appointments. Despite the concern in her eyes, she doesn’t offer to drive him. The conversations are brief, nothing more than Dean assuring her he’s okay, that he only needs time. The encounters always end with Charlie wrapping her arms around him, but Dean has forgotten how to relax into the embrace. He’s stiff and awkward, and it makes his chest hurt.

The only thing that helps is the music. Dean listened to every playlist on his phone twice and then went through random genres in his music app. Classical orchestra, piano standards, folk, and blues, he’s listened to it all. His hands tap out the rhythm of every new song and he wonders if he really can play them all. There is an easy way to find out, but that’s something else Dean has been avoiding.

Castiel isn’t like anyone Dean has ever met. He’s brash and funny and, even though they’re strangers, he looks at Dean as if Dean matters. Dean has spent hours replaying their meal, and it’s easy to imagine Castiel would be pleased if Dean showed up again. That’s why he hasn’t gone.

Dean is tempted though. It doesn’t even have to be about seeing Castiel. Hell, at the rate he’s been hiding in his room, no one would even miss him if he slipped out of the house and caught a bus downtown. Charlie and John came back from training over an hour ago, but John left again. There haven’t been any sounds from Charlie’s room next door, so she probably left, too.

The tight knot in his chest loosens into a storm of butterflies. Dean is pulling clean clothes from his dresser before he registers he decided to go.

He showers as fast as he can, carefully tilting his face away from the spray, and pulls on his tight black jeans and a blood red Henley. A pair of dark leather boots and he’s ready to go. Dean glances in the mirror as he’s crossing the room. Charlie calls these his _getting laid_ clothes. So much for not going just to see Castiel.

The house is quiet when he eases open his bedroom door and looks down the long hallway. Charlie’s door is closed.

Dean slips through the door—letting it snick shut behind him—and heads for the stairs. The winding staircase has never felt as excessively grand as it does tonight. He makes it to the foyer and crosses to the door, one hand on the handle when a sound behind him freezes him in place.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Dean turns. Charlie is standing in the doorway, her hair reflecting the light behind her like flames encircling her head. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and her cheeks are shiny with moisture. “Why would I want you to leave?”

“You tell me, Dean.” Her voice cracks on his name.

He crosses the marble and gathers her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. Charlie tenses, trying to pull away, but finally relaxes when he holds her tighter. “Don’t leave me, Char. I need you here.”

Charlie sniffles, turning her head to press her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry I pushed you. I was so scared, and I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” She tightens her arms around his waist and squeezes. “If you need me to find a new coach, I will. Just don’t shut me out.”

Dean rubs his cheek against her hair, four-day-old stubble catching in the strands, and tries to imagine what life would be like without her. Though he’d had friends in high school and college, no one but Charlie ever stuck it out. If his grueling training schedule didn’t push them away, John’s snapping and growling did. If she gives up on him, this time he’ll have no one to blame but himself.

“Jesus, Char. I don’t want you to find another coach,” Dean murmurs into her hair. “Dad is your coach for as long as you need him. No matter what happens, I’ll make sure of it.”

She nods, her cheek brushing the front of his shirt and wetness seeps through to his skin.

Dean pulls back and cups her face, brushing her tears away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it,” he whispers, staring into her eyes. “You’re my best friend. I’d be lost without you.”

Charlie’s lips are soft and warm when she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. When she pulls away, she runs her hands across her cheeks and sweeps her eyes over his body. Cocking one eyebrow, she gives him a serious look. “You’re going clubbing? I know I’m not supposed to baby you, but do you think that’s a good idea?”

Dean flushes. “I’m not going clubbing. I’m going to the music store.”

Charlie looks confused before her eyes narrow. “What’s his name?”

Ducking his head, Dean turns back toward the door, but Charlie is quick and plants herself in front of it. “Who?” he asks with a sigh.

“The guy who cuts your hair,” she snaps. “Who do you think I mean? The guy at the music store.”

“I have no idea what you—”

Charlie puts one hand on his chest and runs it down to cup his ass, and Dean squeaks. From anyone else, it would be a come-on, but from Charlie it’s just uncomfortable—like being felt-up by his sister. “You’re telling me you’re just wearing these pants to play the piano?”

Dean shoves her hand away. “He’s nobody, just the guy who runs the store.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean runs a hand over his face. “Castiel. His name is Castiel.”

“He’s cute.”

Dean almost denies it, but Charlie knows him better than anyone. “He is.”

Charlie nods once, a quick, sharp movement. “Let me wash my face and throw on some jeans. I can’t go out in these tights.”

He looks at the bright orange fitness leggings she’s wearing under an oversized Harley Quinn t-shirt. “You’re not—”

“Don’t tell me I’m not going,” she throws over her shoulder as she sprints up the stairs. “I need to make sure he’s good enough for you.”

Dean could slip out while she’s upstairs, but Dean owes her for being such a horrible friend all week. He parks himself on the bottom step to wait.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before she reappears in day-glow purple skinny jeans—Dean isn’t sure why she bothered—and they take her car across town. He answers her probing questions about Castiel in as few words as possible, and he cringes at the glint in her eye when he admits they had dinner together.

Charlie parks the car halfway down the block from the shop. “Please don’t embarrass me,” Dean says as they get out. He’s never had to worry before because there has never been anyone he wanted to—or could let himself—get to know.

“I would never,” she shoots back with a grin.

Dean swallows his groan and leads her into the shop. Castiel sits on a stool beside the counter, an acoustic guitar propped on his lap. A petite, dark-haired woman leans against the wall beside him, singing along with the tune he’s playing. They look up when Dean and Charlie slip through the door, and Castiel’s bright eyes lock onto Dean. He flashes a quick smile before murmuring something Dean doesn’t catch to the woman. She narrows her eyes and gives Dean an appraising once-over, then nods and takes the guitar from Castiel as he stands up.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes catch on the way his tight black tank top shows off his tattoos. The musical notation winds the whole way to his shoulders and meets over his breastbone. Castiel is more defined than Dean noticed before, and his biceps bulge when he crosses his arms. When Dean finally drags his eyes up to Castiel’s face, the man’s smirk says he knows exactly what Dean is thinking.

“Hey, Castiel,” he says, cheeks burning. Dean tips his head toward Charlie. “Charlie, uh, this is Charlie. Which you already know. Anyway, she wanted to see me play and see where I’ve been hanging out. Not that I’ve been here a lot, but, you know, where I come to play and...” He trails off when he realizes they’re staring at him. Dean calculates the distance to the door and the chances of the floor opening to swallow him up before he can get there.

Charlie clears her throat. “I’m Charlie. Dean’s best friend,” she says, holding her hand out to Castiel. “Thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.”

The woman behind the counter scoffs and Castiel shoots her a dirty look. He takes Charlie’s hand and greets her, but his eyes stray back to Dean. Dean flushes at the interest in them, remembering the way Castiel flirted at the diner.

“...should come out with us,” Castiel says, looking over at Dean expectantly.

Dean shakes himself out of his thoughts of what might have happened if he had come back that night. “Uh, I don’t—”

“The band is playing at the Rembrandt tonight,” Castiel explains, his expression softening the same way Charlie’s does when she realizes Dean has lost focus. He gestures at the dark haired woman. “That’s Meg, our lead singer. You’ve met Ash, and Raphael should be here any minute to help us load up.”

Dean hasn’t been to a club since the accident. An immediate spike of panic clashes with an overwhelming need for the pounding music. The music wins out. Dean is about to agree when Charlie shakes her head.

“I have to be up for training at four. John will kill me.”

Dean lets out a disappointed huff. Charlie is right. Going out on a training night is suicide. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s—”

“You could always just come hang out while we set up and stay for the first set at nine. You’ll be in bed by ten-thirty.” Castiel pitches his words at Charlie, but he’s looking at Dean as he talks. The glint in his eye ignites a simmering heat in Dean.

“We should get home,” Charlie says.

Dean turns so Castiel can’t see the look he gives her. He might not have his brother’s puppy dog eyes, but he knows how to work Charlie.

After a few seconds, she sighs. “Fine.”

Dean stifles his grin, but when he turns to Castiel, the other man doesn’t bother to hide his pleasure. “Awesome. How would you like to be volunteer roadies?” he asks, slinging his arm over Dean’s shoulder. “Extra hands to load the gear is always nice.”

Even with the extra help, it still takes them forty minutes to load the dilapidated van parked in the alley behind the store. Raphael shows up twenty-five minutes into the process and does more supervising than he does loading. Castiel sends pointed barbs his way, but Raphael just smirks and goes back to scrolling through his phone. He finally jumps into action when Meg threatens to drop a zippered bag holding Castiel’s cymbals on his foot.

There’s a short squabble while Castiel tries to talk Ash into driving the van so he can ride with Charlie and Dean. Meg says something low and clipped into Castiel’s ear and the fight drains out of him.

“There’s a parking lot behind the club,” Castiel says, walking Dean and Charlie out the front door while the others pile into the van. “It’s reserved for staff and the band, but just tell them you’re with us if anyone tries to stop you.” Castiel brushes his hand across Dean’s shoulder as he gets in the car, but when Dean turns, Castiel is jogging back toward the building.

“You’re in over your head with this guy,” Charlie says, starting the car.

Dean turns to look out the window and ignores her.

Unloading the van at the club goes quicker, both because Raphael helps and because his girlfriend meets them there. Castiel snags Dean to help him set up his drum set, and Dean hands him the pieces as he points at them. Every time Castiel takes a piece of the kit from Dean, he brushes his fingers against Dean’s, sending a shiver skittering through Dean’s body. By the time they’re finished, Dean is so keyed up he would say yes if Castiel invited him into the bathroom for a quickie, consequences be damned.

While the band does their sound check, Dean and Charlie stand in front of the stage with Raphael’s girlfriend. Natalie tells them she’s a dental hygienist, and she and Raphael met when she did an in-service in his classroom at the local elementary school.

“I can’t imagine Raphael teaching,” Charlie says. “He doesn’t seem to like people, let alone children.”

Dean is only half following the conversation as he stares hungrily at the way the muscles in Castiel’s shoulders bunch and pull with every beat, but he agrees. Raphael is kind of a dick.

Natalie gives a throaty chuckle, her tight black curls bouncing around her face. “He can be intense sometimes, but the kids love him.”

Charlie pulls a face. Instead of disagreeing, she asks, “Have you been together long?”

“Four years. At first, he thought I’d try to get him to give up the band, but they’re his family. I couldn’t imagine Raph without _Seraphim_.”

Dean looks over at her, but she’s watching Raphael with the same intensity he’d just been staring at Castiel.

Natalie finally tears her eyes away and leans over to bump his arm. “He’s never brought someone to a show before.”

On stage, Castiel shakes his head, flicking sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes. Dean finds that hard to believe. “We’re just friends.”

Natalie hums, then clicks her tongue. “I wonder if he knows that.”

By the time the band starts their first set, Dean can’t stop trying to figure out what Castiel hopes to get out of this. Friendship? A one-night-stand? Fuck buddies? Something more? Dean’s stomach twists into knots. He’s never done this, never navigated something more than a hookup at a club or a quickie after a meet in college. Charlie is right; he’s in over his head.

Dean isn’t sure what he was expecting from Castiel’s band, but the high energy late ‘80s hair metal they start with sure isn’t it. Meg’s voice is throaty, but powerful as she belts out the lyrics. She struts around the stage, flipping her hair over her shoulder and shooting looks into the crowd that are both sultry and condescending.

The music flows from one rock song to the next, occasionally interspersed with a ballad. The music echoes in his head and his hands twitch along with the melody, but Dean can’t pull his attention away from Castiel. From where he’s standing, Castiel can’t see him, and Dean is glad.

The last time he was in a club, he had been able to lose himself in the music. Although the vibrations reverberate through his chest the same way tonight, he can’t get into it. After a while, his head hurts and his eyes go fuzzy. His chest aches. It’s too much. He has to get away.

Dean stumbles to the side of the room, away from the wall of sound coming out of the speakers. It isn’t until a cool hand touches the back of his neck that he realizes Charlie followed him.

“Are you okay? Do you need to go home?”

Dean tries to shake his head, but the pounding pain sends a shock of nausea through him. “I’m okay,” he lies through clenched teeth, fighting off the wave of sickness. “Just needed to sit down.”

Charlie keeps her hand on his arm as he lowers himself into a booth at the edge of the room, and the contact is grounding. She disappears for a moment, and then a tall glass of water with droplets condensing on the side appears in front of him. Dean raises it with a trembling hand and takes a few sips before pressing the chilled glass to his forehead. The cold is searing, but it eases his headache.

Dean leans his head to rest against the wall at the back of the booth and closes his eyes. The music continues, the wail of the guitar and pounding of the drums less intense at this distance. Dean lets it move through him, gives in to the urge to tap out the melody on the table. The more he plays, lets himself get lost in the notes, the more his headache fades and the sick roiling in his stomach abates.

Meg’s voice is muted as she tells the crowd to stick around for their next set, and movement bustles around him. Voices lowered to harsh whispers, and then finally the weight of a body sliding into the booth next to him.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low, worried, and he strokes his hand down Dean’s arm, stilling the frantic movement as Dean continues to chase the phantom music. He winds his fingers through Dean’s and his touch is soothing.

It takes a moment for Dean’s foggy brain to realize Castiel is holding his hand. Dean opens his eyes and finds himself the subject of an intense inspection. “Cas…”

“Are you okay, Dean? Do you need—”

“I’m okay,” Dean manages. His throat is parched, and he reaches for the glass of water. Castiel gets to it first and raises the glass to his lips. Hot, sick shame at Castiel seeing him so weak wars with gratitude. Dean closes his eyes and swallows a few mouthfuls of water, then opens them to focus on Castiel’s face. “Sorry,” he mutters. “A traumatic brain injury takes longer to shake off than I thought.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If you weren’t up to it—”

Dean cuts him off again. “Didn’t know I wasn’t up to it. Haven’t exactly been cruising the club scene since the accident.”

“Still,” Castiel says, his fingers closing tighter on Dean’s. He glances up at Charlie, who is hovering next to the booth. “You should get him home.”

Dean doesn’t fight when Castiel offers to help him to the car. He wraps his arm around Dean’s waist. The pressure is solid and comforting, and Dean lets himself lean into it. Once they’re standing next to the car, Castiel releases him, and Dean aches for his touch.

Castiel runs his fingertips across Dean’s jaw. “You need to take it easy,” he whispers.

“I’m okay,” Dean repeats more honestly. “Just too much all at once.”

Castiel remains close, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the building behind them, but even in the semi-darkness his stare bores through Dean. He leans in, and for a moment, Dean thinks Castiel is going to kiss him.

He doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arms around Dean and hugs. “I know it’s stupid; we barely know each other,” he mutters into Dean’s shoulder. “It’s just really important to me that you’re okay.”

Dean can’t speak with the words stuck in his dry throat. When Castiel pulls away, Dean nods. It isn’t stupid at all. Whatever this connection between them is, Dean feels it too.

Castiel’s hand dips into Dean’s pocket and pulls out his phone. Even with the jagged pain in his head, the touch sends a thrill through Dean. Castiel futzes with it, and his own phone beeps before he slides the phone back into Dean’s pants. “There, you have my number. Let me know you made it home okay.”

“We will,” Charlie says, her voice startling Dean. He’d forgotten she was there.

The ride home is silent, but Charlie casts concerned looks his way every few moments. When they pass the pool, Dean can’t hold it in anymore. Slow tears leak down his cheeks. He does his best to swallow his soft sniffle, but Charlie looks over again.

“Dean?”

Dean shakes his head, scrubbing angrily at his eyes. “What if this is my life now?” he whispers, his voice scratchy. “What if I never swim again? What if this is all I am? Just a broken, pathetic mess?”

Charlie pulls the car over to the berm and puts it in park before pulling him into her arms. Dean buries his face in her neck and lets the tears come more freely. “You’re not broken,” she murmurs. “Not pathetic and not a mess. We’ll get through this the same way we do everything else. Together.”

The words are empty platitudes, Dean knows, but at the moment, they’re all he has. He pushes his arms around her waist and clings to her, hoping they’re enough.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The phone only rings twice before Sam picks up. “Hey, Dean. What’s up?” he says, his voice deep and familiar and comforting even from eighteen hundred miles away.

Dean swallows, wets his lips, and still can’t find the words.

Sam sighs. “Are you okay?”

Dean is tired of people asking him that. “I’m not gonna be at Santa Clara,” he says, ripping the band-aid off all at once. “Charlie and Dad are going, but I’m not going to make it.”

Sam curses and the sound of a door closing echoes through the phone, followed by the rustling of Sam getting comfortable. “Weren’t things getting better? The neurologist said you could swim.”

Dean bites back a bitter laugh. “Yeah, he said I could, but I can’t. I mean, I’m allowed to, but I freak out every time I try to get in the water.”

“Since when?”

“Since the accident. What the fuck do you think?” Dean snaps. He shoves one hand through his hair and sighs. “Sorry, man. I’m just tired of this.”

There’s a long silence, and Dean can imagine Sam’s concerned expression while he gathers his thoughts. Finally, he says, “You can’t swim at all?”

Dean flops back and throws one arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Swim? I freak out in the shower if water gets on my face. My life is pretty much over.”

“You sound like dad. Swimming isn’t your life.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam mutters something Dean doesn’t catch.

“If you’re gonna huff and puff and bitch at me, at least do it loud enough so I can hear you.”

“Fine,” Sam snaps. “Would not swimming anymore be so terrible?”

“What about the Olympics?”

“What about them? Can you say you even want to compete anymore? You haven’t been happy for years, Dean. Dad is driving you into the ground with this craziness, and you let him.”

“Now you sound like my therapist.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” Sam pauses, letting out a huff of breath the same way he always does before he says something Dean won’t like. “Are you doing this for yourself or for mom?”

Dean balances the phone between his shoulder and his ear and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Is there a difference?”

“That’s your problem, Dean. Mom is dead. She’s been dead for a long time. Winning a medal won’t bring her back.”

The words are daggers to Dean’s chest. He opens his mouth to tell Sam how wrong he is, but the thought of what his mother would say about recent events stops him. Dean doesn’t believe she would approve of the way John treats him, or what he’s allowed his life to become. She’d love Charlie, of that he’s certain, but she’d hate the rest.

“I don’t know what else to do, Sammy,” Dean finally admits. “This has been my life for so long. What else is there?”

“There are a million other things you could do. Stop letting dad dictate everything. Meet someone and start dating. Get a normal job and actually have a life.”

Dean thinks of Castiel, of his job at the music store and the way he looks at Dean as if Dean is a puzzle he wants to solve. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know right now. So you don’t come to Santa Clara. Maybe you take the rest of the year off and explore what you want to do with your life. Even if the accident doesn’t end your career, you’re not going to swim forever. There has to be life after the Olympics.”

“Dad doesn’t believe that.”

“Dad is an asshole.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re not wrong. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Any time. Eileen and I will still go and meet up with Charlie if that’s okay with you. I booked the tickets last month, and she’s excited.”

“Knock yourself out, man. Dad will be in a pissy mood, though, so you should stay away from him.”

“Story of my life,” Sam mutters.

“Truth.”

The conversation shifts to stupid family news and Sam’s classes for a while before they say goodbye. Dean is less anxious by the time they hang up.

The phone beeps as he sets it on the nightstand. A little thrill goes through him even before he turns it over and sees it’s from Castiel. They’ve been texting ever since the disastrous gig over a week ago, so at least something good came out of that night.

_Ash showed up for his shift 10 mins late._

Dean smiles, his heart giving a flip, and settles back on the bed to respond. It’s ridiculous that a text from Castiel can change his whole mood, but it does. _Tell him he owes you one of those disgusting burgers._

_Don’t act like you didn’t like it._

Dean chuckles. _It was the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth_

_Oh really?_ Dean can imagine the innuendo in Castiel’s expression at that, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at his lips. His whole body heats up when Castiel follows it with another text right away. _I should have been paying more attention._

They’ve been skirting the edge of flirting for the last few days. Usually Castiel starts it, but talking to Sam inspired Dean to be more adventurous. _You could ask for a repeat performance_

_Are we still talking about burgers?_

Dean chuckles. _Guess you’ll never know._

Several minutes go by without a response, and Dean second guesses himself for every one of them. Too much? Not enough? ‘Let’s get out of here’ is as subtle as he typically needs to get, but he’s never met anyone like Castiel. The phone finally beeps again and Dean looks at it. _I’m bored. You should entertain me._

Dean grips the phone tighter. _Oh yeah?_

_Let’s do something._

Dean’s heart rate picks up, and he pushes himself up so he’s resting against the headboard. _Like what?_

Castiel’s response takes a while, but when it comes, Dean’s heart sinks. _Take me swimming._

They’ve talked about this. Dean has bitched about his therapy appointments and visits to the doctors, the crushing terror when the water closes over his face. It’s the last thing he wants Castiel to see. _The pool is closed_.

_Your family owns it. You can get us in._

Embarrassment wars with the desire to see Castiel. Dean trusts that Castiel won’t hurt him or make him do anything he doesn’t want. Would it be so bad? Maybe Sam is right, and his world isn’t ending. _Meet me at the pool in 20._

Dean throws on his clothes and forces himself to walk confidently down the spiraling staircase to the foyer even though he wants to slink down the back stairs. He isn’t doing anything wrong. Either way, it doesn’t matter because no one stops him. The door to John’s office is shut and Charlie is at her weekly game night.

Dean is sitting on the curb behind the building when Castiel pulls up in a beaten-down blue Jeep. The thing makes a loud squealing noise until Castiel cuts the engine. Dean stands up and walks to the driver’s side. “Jump in,” Castiel says, his eyes twinkling even in the dim security lights on the building.

“I thought we were swimming.”

“We are, but I brought something for you.”

Dean makes a face, but goes around to the passenger side. He pulls the door shut and when he turns, Castiel holds out a lit joint. “What the fuck, man? I can’t smoke that!”

Castiel shrugs and takes a long, slow pull from it, the tip flaring bright orange in the shadows. He releases a lazy exhale, and the smoke floats around his head. “Why not?”

“They drug test us at the meets.”

Castiel twitches one eyebrow upwards. “You’re not competing, Dean,” he points out in a whisper, as if he’s trying to soften the blow of the words.

Dean looks at him for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the joint pinched between two fingers and Castiel’s face. Castiel is right. His life is already fucked. What can it hurt?

He takes the joint gingerly and places it to his lips. The harsh smoke burns his lungs and his eyes water. Dean lets out a hacking cough, almost dropping the butt on the floor.

Castiel laughs, clapping one hand on Dean’s back. “Take it easy,” he says, taking the joint from Dean and pulling another hit before he holds it out to Dean again. “Start slow, breathe in shallow, and hold it.”

Dean tries again. This time, the acrid smoke burns, but he doesn’t cough. Instead he holds it in his lungs for a few seconds before he breathes it out, and Castiel smiles as if he’s a proud parent.

They pass the joint back and forth, not speaking. At first, Dean doesn’t feel any different. His leg bounces, his hands shake, and the music in his head ebbs and flows just beyond his consciousness. After a while, though, everything goes fuzzy at the edges. He feels good. Fantastic.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Dean says. He isn’t sure if he means the pot or the way Castiel affects him, but from the look on Castiel’s face, he knows.

Castiel nods and takes a final hit before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Let’s go.”

Technically, Dean has a key and going into the center at night isn’t unheard of. He and Charlie used to do their workouts in the gym after hours when the center closed early, but Dean has never been here this late.

Dean closes the door behind them and punches the code into the alarm panel on the wall. Rather than going to the training pool, he takes them to one of the smaller recreational pools. Their footsteps echo in the large room and the pool is still and quiet. Dean has always liked being the first one in the pool in the morning, the first one to disturb the absolute stillness. There’s something magical about it.

“I’ve got suits in my locker,” Dean says, heading toward the locker room. He realizes after a few steps that Castiel isn’t following. Dean turns back as a loud splash echoes across the room. A pile of clothes rests on the bottom bleacher, and although the water distorts Dean’s view it’s obvious Castiel is naked. He cuts through the pool like a sleek marine animal, and Dean can’t tear his eyes away.

When Castiel breaks the surface, he treads water as he slicks his hair back and gives Dean a wide grin. “Come here,” he says, motioning with one hand.

Dean watches him, wanting nothing more than to be in the water with him, but every step he takes toward the edge makes his chest tighter and tighter. He pins his eyes on Castiel’s body, the intricate tattoos curling up his arms to cross his collarbone and meet in a riot of color over his sternum. It isn’t hard to imagine being able to touch Castiel, running his hands and his mouth over the toned body. If he gets in the water. “I can’t,” he whispers, turning away as his face flames hot.

There’s another splash and Dean turns to see Castiel swimming across the pool toward the shallow end. He stands, and the water slides over his chest. Dean follows the rivulets to where the distortion of the water barely obscures his body. “Come here,” he repeats.

“I need a suit.”

“No, you don’t.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t know if I can,” he manages.

“I’ll help you.”

It’s the calm, matter-of-fact way Castiel says it that finally makes Dean break. Castiel doesn’t owe him anything, barely knows him, but he’s willing to offer calm support while Dean sets the pace. Dean closes his eyes and focuses on the floaty sensation in his head and the heaviness in his limbs. When he opens them, Castiel is watching him steadily.

Trying desperately to ignore Castiel’s eyes on him, Dean strips off his clothes. He’s been naked in front of guys he wants to have sex with before, but there’s something intimate about stripping in front of Castiel. His body isn’t all he’s baring.

Once he’s naked, he slips into the water and crosses the pool until he can reach out and touch Castiel. Dean’s heart is ready to beat out of his chest.

Castiel gives him a lopsided grin and swims leisurely circles around him. “I forgot how warm the water in an indoor pool can be. We usually swim out at the reservoir.”

“The band?”

With a nod, Castiel does a flip in the water, reversing his direction around Dean. “Meg won’t swim even though she’s good at it but Raphael was on the team in high school. Ash couldn’t swim to save his own life.”

Dean chuckles. “I haven’t been in open water since last year. My grandparents took me and Charlie and Sam to Italy.”

Castiel ducks his head under the water and shoots across the pool, breaking the surface inches from the wall and doing a leisurely backstroke back. “Did you tell him about California?”

Dean turns to follow Castiel’s progression as he swims by. “Yeah, it sucked. He said I should get a regular job and give up on swimming.”

Castiel turns again, this time swimming away from Dean toward the deeper lanes of the pool. Dean takes a few steps in that direction before Castiel flips around and swims back. “You went to college, right?”

“Anthropology,” Dean confirms with another nod. “But walking away isn’t that easy. How did you do it?”

A few droplets of water hit Dean in the chest when Castiel slaps his hand on the surface with a grin. “I just did. Living the way they wanted was killing me. Future Business Leaders of America and the debate team, black tie events at the country club. I knew if I didn’t get out, it would suck the life out of me.”

“You’re a genius when it comes to music. Don’t you ever want more than working in the music store?”

Castiel floats toward Dean on his back, his bare groin skimming the surface of the water. Dean steps forward, and the floor slopes away. “What else is there?” Castiel says, rolling over and diving under again. When he resurfaces a few feet away, he shakes his hair back, the spray hitting Dean in the face. “The band makes me happy, and the store pays my bills. What more do I need?”

Dean runs his hand over his face, brushing the water away. He waits for the panic, the tightness in his chest, but it doesn’t come. Even the music is a muted echo in the back of his head. “I can’t imagine not having something I need to work for.”

Castiel swims away, treading water a few feet from Dean. “At some point you’re allowed to be satisfied with what you have.” He cups his hand and skates it along the surface, sending a spray of water toward Dean.

Dean turns so the droplets don’t hit his face and pushes his hands against the water to send a wave back. “I wouldn’t know where to start, even if my dad let me.” Castiel glides out of the way of the spray and Dean moves toward him as if they’re attached by a string. The water is up to his chest.

“It isn’t up to your dad.”

Dean takes another step, the water lapping at his collarbone, and reaches for Castiel as he coasts past. His fingertips skim Castiel’s arm. “You sound like Sam and Charlie.”

Castiel grins. “They’re pretty smart.” He does another circuit, running his hand across Dean’s hip when he passes. The touch mere inches from his cock sends an electric current skirting across Dean’s skin.

Dean spins around, grasping for him, but his hand closes on empty water. He follows Castiel’s arc, taking another tentative step, but the water teases his neck and he pulls back.

Castiel stops and treads water. “What do you want, Dean? Not your dad, not your grandparents, not Sam or Charlie. You.”

“You know what I want,” Dean says with an annoyed huff. They’re not talking about swimming anymore.

Castiel’s smile is so wide it crinkles his eyes at the corners. “Then come get it.”

Dean measures the distance between them, the angle of the floor. There’s no way the water won’t get on his face if he swims to Castiel. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll catch you.”

There’s nothing but a few feet of gently lapping water between them, but it might as well be a mile of choppy swell. Dean’s heart slams against his ribs. He curls his toes against the floor and calculates the force he needs to reach Castiel in one push. The chlorine burns his nose when he takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes closed, and shoves off.

For a moment, there’s only the water surrounding him. Any moment, he’ll go under. Dean holds his breath, waiting for everything to come crashing down around him.

But it doesn’t. A heartbeat later, Castiel’s arms close around him. Rather than slipping under the surface, he’s buoyed by Castiel’s body, his feet churning the water beneath them. Dean opens his eyes, staring directly into the crystal blue depths, so close he can see himself reflected in them. A moment passes, a single breath, before Castiel covers Dean’s mouth with his own.

The kiss is clumsy, lips sliding together, wet and sloppy as they try to keep themselves afloat. The water laps at Dean’s chin but he barely notices as Castiel forces his lips apart. His tongue invades Dean’s mouth, hot and strong when it meets Dean’s and they curl together. The water splashes Dean’s cheek when Castiel brings one hand up to cup the side of his head. He tips Dean the way he wants, taking and taking until Dean can’t remember what he was trying to resist.

Even with the frantic churning of the water below them, it’s impossible for them to stay afloat for long. Their legs slow and they sink. Even with Castiel filling his every sense, the wet slide of Castiel’s body against his, panic claws at Dean. He shoves away, fighting to break free, but Castiel won’t let him go.

Instead of breaking the kiss, Castiel gives a strong kick, propelling them backwards until Dean’s feet touch the sloping floor. Still at Castiel’s mercy, he twists, turning them so he can push Castiel up the slope until they’re both standing in the shallow end.

With the solid bottom under him, Dean lets himself sink into the kiss again. He lunges forward, hissing into Castiel’s mouth when their straining cocks slide against each other. Dean gets his hands on Castiel’s ass, pulling so he can grind against Castiel’s body.

Castiel winds his fingers through the short strands of Dean’s hair and pulls his head back, dipping so he can mouth at Dean’s throat. Dean’s scalp smarts from the sharp tug, but he can only shove his hips forward again, seeking the friction he’s denied himself for weeks.

“I want to blow you,” Castiel says, his words muffled against Dean’s throat. He pushes Dean toward the edge of the pool.

Dean’s cock twitches as he imagines it, and he moves a few feet before the reality of what Castiel said hits him. This isn’t a one-night stand to Dean. Castiel isn’t a guy he picked up at a bar, whose name he doesn’t know and who he will never see again. Dean won’t be throwing away the number he’s slipped. There’s no way John won’t find out and ruin everything.

Dean shoves away, breaking Castiel’s hold. His foot slips against the pool bottom and he pinwheels his arms, his breath catching in his throat as he prepares to go under. Instead, Castiel catches him again, his hands firm on Dean’s biceps as he steadies him.

“What’s going on, Dean? Talk to me.” Castiel’s voice holds an edge of panic.

“You can’t do this,” Dean blurts. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense. I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel’s hands tighten on Dean’s arms, and he tries to pull Dean in, but Dean fights his way free.

Dean sloshes through the water and hauls himself up the ladder before Castiel can stop him. He grabs his sweatpants from the pile of his clothes and hauls them up his wet legs, immediately more stable once he’s covered.

“Dean,” Castiel says, skidding to a stop beside him. “Stop.”

Dean’s hands are shaking. He hates that he can’t hold himself together. Dean reaches for his shirt, but Castiel grabs it out of his hand.

“You’re scaring me.” Castiel’s eyes are wide and slightly glassy, and Dean has to look away.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Dean says, hating the way his voice wavers.

“Just the way you are, Dean. One step at a time.”

“I’m not ready to take this step.” As soon as the words are out, Dean realizes they’re true. He doesn’t want his relationship with Castiel to be the same as every other one he’s ever had, withering away under the specter of John’s disapproval.

Castiel’s breath hitches. “Not ready right now, or not ready ever?”

Dean meets his eyes and nods. “I want to. I’m just—Cas, I’m fucked up. And I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want this to be something else I ruin.”

There’s a moment when Castiel looks as if he wants to argue before he thinks better of it. “Okay,” he says, handing Dean’s shirt back. “I can wait until you’re ready.” Castiel looks down at himself and smirks. “Guess I better get dressed.”

Dean watches, eyes tracing over his back to his firm ass and powerful thighs, as he saunters over and pulls on his clothes. The tight, black jeans stick on his wet skin and he jiggles to get them up. Dean can’t help but watch with regret as he tucks himself into the jeans, wincing when he tugs up the zipper. The grey t-shirt clings to his wet chest, and Dean’s heart—not to mention his cock—aches at how much he wishes he was brave enough to take what he wants.

When they’re both dressed, Castiel holds out his hand to Dean. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

The silence in the Jeep is broken only by the rasp of their breathing and the sharp whine of the alternator belt. Dean has Castiel stop a few blocks away even though the house isn’t visible from the road. It would be his luck if John was leaving when they pulled up and saw them.

Dean pushes the door open, but stops when Castiel puts his hand on his arm. His blue eyes are luminescent in the street light.

“For the record,” Castiel whispers, speaking so softly that Dean has to lean back in to hear him. “You’re not screwing anything up.” He shifts, pressing soft, warm lips to Dean’s cheek.

Dean nods, his throat tight. “Thanks, Cas,” he says and gets out.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The door closes behind Dean, and he leans against the stark institutional wall to catch his breath. He’s raw, as if Dr. Harvelle scooped out his guts, stirred them up, and stuffed them back in. Telling her what happened with Castiel at the pool last week wasn’t easy, but laying everything out helped. Dean is tired of living for everyone else.

Thankfully, Castiel has continued as if nothing happened. He texts Dean every day, an ongoing litany of random comments. Dean has gone to the store—sometimes with Charlie but mostly by himself—to play the piano several times. During one of the visits, Ash talked him into testing his ability on other instruments, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with any of them.

Dean shoves away from the wall, his mind still replaying Dr. Harvelle’s words. _What do you want?_ That’s what everyone wants to know. What does he want? Dean wishes he had an answer.

“Mr. Winchester, I didn’t know you were back on campus.”

Dean stops and turns toward the voice. His senior advisor sticks her head out of one of the many offices along the hallway. “Dr. Moseley. I’m, uh, I had a meeting.”

Black curls bounce around her face when she nods, her eyes tracing over the door to the psychology clinic, and she gives a small hum. “What have you been doing with yourself since you graduated? I never heard from you about publishing your paper on the Wichita Nation.”

Dean flushes. The possibility of publishing his senior project had been exciting, but he’d been gearing up for the Olympics and lost track of the idea. “Swimming,” he says. “I went to the Olympics that year.”

“Yes, I’d heard. Very exciting.” Her tone is dry and just as intimidating as he remembers. She narrows her eyes and taps one finger against her lips. “You know, Dr. Blakeslee out at Wichita State thinks he found the lost city of Etzanoa. The department has been consulting with him, and your research would be a good fit with his theories.”

There’s a flare of interest, an echo of the excitement he’d felt while researching that project. Long hours in the library even with training in the morning, his first visit to a dig site, and Dr. Moseley’s belief that his ideas were worth pursuing. Just as quickly, the excitement dies. That’s not his life anymore. “I saw it on the news, but I haven’t really been keeping up with that stuff.”

“That stuff,” she repeats, over-enunciating each word. She studies him for a long moment. “Dean, I shouldn’t say this, but I hate to see passion for exploration go to waste.”

“Dr. Moseley—”

She holds up one hand. “Let me speak, boy.”

Dean swallows hard and nods.

“Dr. Blakeslee and I have been writing up his findings,” she continues. “There was a grad student working with me as a personal assistant, but she’s run into some family troubles and needs to fly home to Florida for the summer. She’ll likely need to take next semester off.”

“Okay.”

“The work you submitted in my seminar was exemplary. I’d love to hire you to work on the project with me.”

“I don’t—”

Dr. Moseley holds up her hand again. “Think about it. I don’t need an answer for a few weeks. Think it through and let me know.” She reaches into her pocket and comes up with a business card.

Dean should tell her no. Just turn her down and walk away. But something stops him. _What do you want?_ At one time, he’d wanted this enough to spend four years of his life studying it. Dean takes the card and pockets it. “I’ll let you know by next week.”

Dr. Moseley pats his arm. “You do that.”

The ride home on the bus is miserable. Dean had been hoping the neurologist would clear him to drive this week, but he wants three months with no dizziness, no confusion, and no panic attacks. At this rate, he won’t be driving until next year.

As the bus groans and lurches through town, Dean pulls the card out of his pocket and studies it. With the specter of the Olympics hanging over his head, he’d never taken the idea of working as an anthropologist seriously. Dr. Moseley had tried to convince him to stay on for grad school, but there was no way he had time in his schedule. Dean could justify college to his dad for the competition experience, but John would have never agreed to grad school.

The Santa Clara Pro Swim meet is tomorrow. Charlie and John are leaving tonight, and they might even be packed up by the time he gets home. Dean had considered going, but the idea of not being able to compete made him nauseous. Both Dr. Harvelle and Castiel have pointed out there’s no chance of competing in the Nationals, forget the World Championships. Why drag it out to the bitter end?

Dean crushes the card in his hand. Deanna says sometimes when one door closes, another one opens. Is this a door? What would he be giving up if he walks through it? Dean shoves the card back into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His hand shakes when he dials his mentor on the National Team.

The conversation is quick, just an exchange of information, but a weight lifts as soon as he hangs up. The decision isn’t official, but he’s one step closer to making it.

The walk to the house from the bus stop is short. Dean takes his time, but John is in the foyer when he gets there.

“Thought you’d be gone by now,” Dean says, stepping over the duffle bags piled by the front door.

John looks up from the clipboard in his hand. “Charlie had to run over to the pool. We’re loading up as soon as she gets back.”

Dean nods, shuffling awkwardly. Dr. Moseley’s card weighs heavy in his pocket.

“Rest up and we’ll get back to work next week,” John says. He keeps talking like that. They’ll get back to it on Monday, or in a few days, or next week—as if it’s only a matter of waiting for Dean to decide he can swim.

“I talked to Mr. Knisely. If I’m medically certified as unable to compete by June twentieth, they can remove me from the team without breach of contract.”

John’s head snaps up. “You’re quitting?”

“Not quitting, dad. Just being reasonable. At this point, there’s no way for me to get back in competition form.”

“Not if you quit.”

Dean bites back a growl. “I haven’t been in the pool in over a month, and I’ve lost muscle mass and conditioning. Even if I got back in tomorrow with no issues, I can’t make it up in a month.

John picks up a bag and slams it back on the floor. Dean jumps. “This got anything to do with the loser you’ve been running around with?”

Dean freezes. “What are you talking about?”

John’s upper lip curls. “I’m not stupid, boy. You think I haven’t noticed you running downtown every chance you get? Some scumbag dropout. Castiel. What the hell kind of name is that?”

Something slick and oily crawls through Dean’s guts. “How do you know about him?”

John’s expression is frigid. “I got my ways. Gotta protect my investment, especially if you’re willing to throw it away for a quick fuck.”

“Your investment? Your fucking investment?”

John shrugs. “You don’t know what’s good for you. Willing to get on your knees for any guy who shakes his dick in your face. Your mother—”

“Fuck you,” Dean yells. He takes a single step toward his father, hands balled into fists at his sides. “Don’t you fucking talk about her. I’m not the one she’d be ashamed of. She’d never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

John draws himself up to his full height, still an inch taller than Dean. “Me? I’ve done nothing but protect this family when your selfishness threatened her dream.”

Dean shakes his head, his whole body vibrating with anger. “Her dream, not mine. Hers. I’ve let you push me until I was ready to break, but it was never good enough. She’s dead. Nothing I do will ever be good enough to change that.”

John lashes out, quicker than Dean has ever seen him move. Dean dodges instinctively, flinching to miss a punch, but John doesn’t throw one. Instead, he pushes Dean, sending him stumbling back toward the door. “Shut your damn mouth, boy. You got no business—”

Dean catches himself on the door handle and pulls himself upright. He shakes his head as he yanks the door open. “I have every business. It’s my life. Not yours. She’s not coming back and neither am I.” He slams the door behind him and yanks his keys out of his pocket. Fuck the doctors. Dean needs to get away as soon as possible.

The sharp silver Mazda bursts out of the garage in a rumble of noise, and Dean guns the engine when he sees John standing on the porch. The car shoots forward, tires squealing on the pavement. At the bottom of the winding driveway, he slows long enough to see the road is clear and then yanks hard on the wheel to turn the car toward downtown.

Dean is halfway to the music shop before his heart rate slows and he loosens his grip on the steering wheel. Music blasts from the speakers, pounding along with the discordant notes inside him, and he tries to lose himself in it. The fight repeats in his head and Dean tries to talk himself down. If John could get to Castiel, he would have done it already. Castiel would never take what John has to offer. With Dean broken, there’s no reason for John to bother. None of it is reassuring.

There’s a space in front of the shop, but he pulls into the alley behind it. Castiel’s jeep sits against the wall and Dean eases the Mazda in front of it. He enters the shop from the back door—the way Castiel has brought him in a dozen times—and jogs up the stairs to Castiel’s apartment.

Dean knocks and listens for noise through the door. Castiel told him earlier he wasn’t working today, but that doesn’t mean he’s home. The door opens and a shock of desire runs through Dean. Castiel stands barefoot in the doorway, wet hair tousled, wearing nothing but a pair of pale pink boxers.

“Dean? What are you—”

Dean pushes past him into the apartment. It’s the first time he’s been inside, but he only spares a quick glance around. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, the words out before he even realizes they’re what he meant to say.

Castiel freezes, eyes wide.

Dean toes his shoes off and pulls his t-shirt over his head. “I’m tired of fighting every goddamn good thing in my life. It’s about time I get what I want.”

“And what you want is for me to fuck you?”

Dean stops–jeans and briefs pushed halfway down his thighs—and raises one eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”

Castiel rakes his gaze over Dean’s body and meets his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Good.” Dean tugs his clothes the rest of the way off and falls to his knees at Castiel’s feet. He grabs the waistband of Castiel’s ridiculous boxers and looks up with a smirk.

Castiel looks back with wide, hungry eyes and catches his lower lip between his teeth. Dean basks in the intensity of Castiel’s stare, frissons of heat skittering through him, and tugs the silk down Castiel’s legs. Castiel’s cock bobs free, already half hard. He draws in a sharp breath when Dean wraps his hand around the length and gives it a firm stroke before leaning in to close his mouth over the head.

Castiel’s sharp, musky smell fills his senses, overwhelming him when he goes the whole way down, burying his nose in the crisp curls at the base. Dean tongues around the rapidly filling flesh as he slides back up with excruciating slowness.

With a groan, Castiel curls his fingers and shoves him back down. Pain exploding across his scalp, coupled with the thickness of Castiel’s cock in his throat, brings tears to the corner of his eyes. It’s exactly what he needed.

When he comes up again, Castiel lets him pull off the whole way, groaning when Dean dips his head to mouth at his balls, leaving them shiny with saliva. He looks up and his voice is already rough when he says, “Fuck my mouth.”

Castiel’s eyes roll back, but he wastes no time shoving Dean back down on his dick. Dean holds his mouth open, forcing himself to relax. Castiel holds his head still and rocks his hips, shallow at first and then with stronger thrusts. Dean closes his eyes and lets himself fall into it. Each thrust pushes Castiel’s cock farther and farther into his throat, gagging him. On the next thrust, Castiel stops, holding his head so his cock lodges in Dean’s throat and cuts off his air.

Everything is silent. There’s no music in his head, no trembling panic, no echoes of his father’s voice listing every single thing he’s ever done wrong. There’s only Castiel, swelling impossibly larger in his throat, hands buried in his hair, and his thighs solid under Dean’s hands.

Just as the air in his lungs runs out, his vision going fuzzy and black at the edges, Castiel pulls back. Dean hauls in a gasping breath, closes his mouth, and gives the head a strong suck. “Holy fuck, Dean. You have no idea how good this feels.”

Dean slides down again, going even deeper this time, and lets Castiel hold him there. His eyes water, and every noise of pleasure Castiel makes shoots right to his own aching dick. Not denying himself anything he wants, Dean pries one hand from Castiel’s thighs and wraps it around his own erection. He sucks harder, tonguing at the slit and licking around the head each time Castiel pulls back to allow him to breathe.

Every nerve ending in Dean’s body is on fire. He jacks his own cock in time with Castiel’s thrusts. The heat builds and builds until—just as pleasure curls in his groin, racing toward release—Castiel pulls back, letting his cock slip from Dean’s mouth. He chuckles at Dean’s soft whine. “This party will be over before it gets started if you don’t stop. I’ve been thinking about fucking you for weeks. There’s no way I’m missing my chance.”

“You could always spill down my throat and fuck me in the morning.”

Castiel does a double take. “Jesus, Dean.” He wraps one hand firmly around his dick as if he’s trying to stop himself from blowing. “Tempting as that is, I’m not waiting. Come on.” Castiel holds out his hand to help Dean up and leads him to the bedroom.

Stretching out on Castiel’s bed while knowing it doesn’t have to be the only time should be weird, but it isn’t. Dean props himself up on the pillows and lets his legs fall open. Castiel pulls lube and a condom from a Tupperware bowl on the wooden crates stacked beside the bed and takes his time opening Dean up.

The stretch and burn of Castiel’s fingers are amazing. Dean lights up from the inside, and he wonders why he waited so long to do this. Every few minutes, Castiel leans down to suck Dean’s dick into his mouth, laving his tongue around the head and giving it a firm suck before he releases it.

Dean watches him, eyes partially closed, reveling in the careful way Castiel touches him. He’s been with considerate lovers before, but never anyone like this.

When Castiel shifts, pulling his fingers out and sitting up, Dean lets out a whimper. Castiel places a firm hand on his stomach and murmurs, “I’ve got you, Dean. It’s okay. I can’t wait anymore.”

Dean nods, content to let Castiel guide him. He watches from beneath drooping lids as Castiel opens the condom and slides it on before using more lube to slick himself up.

“How do you want to do this?”

There’s no question. He doesn’t want Castiel to take him from behind, faceless, one of dozens of men Dean doesn’t remember. Instead, he wants to make love face to face. Dean wants Castiel’s expression burned into his mind, to be able to remember the way his eyes look when he slides into Dean and when he comes. “Like this. Come on, come on.” Dean reaches for Castiel, wrapping one arm around his shoulders when he positions himself between Dean’s legs and pushes in.

Even with Castiel’s careful preparation, the intense burn takes his breath away. Dean hisses and Castiel slows, rubbing small circles on Dean’s hip. “It’s okay, Dean. Open up for me. You’re doing so good.”

Dean lets the gentle praise relax him, loosening his trembling muscles so Castiel can push in until he’s buried inside. They pause, and Castiel lowers his head to rest his forehead against Dean’s before turning to kiss one temple. “Is there music in there now?” he whispers, pulling back to stare into Dean’s eyes.

Dean nods, unable to find his voice. There’s always music, but now it thrums through his blood, the soaring melodies matching the way his heart races. He hooks one leg around Castiel’s thighs and pulls him in tighter. “Make me forget it,” he says into Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel stops holding back. He pulls out farther, faster, and slams back in. Each thrust pushes Dean up the bed until he has to raise his hands above his head to brace himself on the wall and shove back. Dean doesn’t look away. He keeps his eyes trained on Castiel, who is looking right back at him.

The music grows, a rising crescendo matching the soaring flames inside him. Castiel kisses him, alternating between licking into his mouth to suck on Dean’s tongue and biting across his jaw to suck on his neck. Dean tries to follow, mouthing at Castiel’s cheek before catching his earlobe and tugging on it.

“I’m gonna come, Dean. Come on, let me feel you,” Castiel groans. He shoves one hand between them, strong fingers wrapping around Dean, stroking him faster and harder, creating a counter rhythm for the thrusts driving Dean crazy. Dean plants his feet on the bed, pushing up so Castiel bottoms out, and lets go.

Blinding pleasure rushes out from the base of his spine and leaves his fingers and toes tingling. He pulses over Castiel’s hand, still stroking him through it, and covers his own chest with his release.

Dean is so lost in pleasure he barely registers Castiel planting his hands on the mattress to find enough leverage to piston his hips, slamming into Dean over and over. A few more moments, Dean floating between overwhelming bliss and oversensitivity, and Castiel finally groans and shoves himself into Dean as far as he can. Dean watches his face and holds onto the pleasure crossing his features as Castiel pulses and twitches inside him.

When Castiel’s arms finally give out, he tries to roll to the side so he doesn’t crush Dean, but Dean won’t let him. He wraps arms and legs around Castiel, holding him tight. The weight of Castiel’s body pressing him into the mattress comforts him.

Dean holds Castiel until their heart rates slow. The result of his release cools between them, turning sticky and uncomfortable, his arms and legs tremble, and he has trouble pulling in air. Castiel kisses him tenderly—lips trailing across Dean’s cheek to press another kiss against his temple—and slips out before rolling off Dean.

In the past, Dean has always been in a rush to clean up and put distance between him and his partner. This time, though, he indulges in the languid warmth weighing him down and watches Castiel from under half-hooded lids.

Castiel pulls off the condom and tosses it into the garbage can before grabbing a shirt from the floor next to the bed to clean Dean’s chest. When he’s done, he lies beside Dean, pulling him in so his head rests on Castiel’s chest. Dean relaxes there, one hand tracing the patterns of musical notation and vines curling up Castiel’s arm.

“Feel better?” Castiel says when Dean is almost asleep.

Dean nods, his cheek sliding against Castiel’s chest.

“Fight with your dad?”

Dean tips his head to look at Castiel. “How did you know?”

Castiel chuckles. “I’m familiar with the effects of banging your head on that particular wall.”

“I’m resigning from the National Team.”

Castiel trails his fingers up and down Dean’s side. “He didn’t take it well.”

Dean’s huff of laughter is sharp. “You could say that. He accused me of quitting because of you.”

Castiel raises one eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Not the way he means.” Dean pushes himself up so he can meet Castiel’s eyes. “Not for you. But yeah, I live in this giant house and have all these things. I’ve been all over the world, recognized as a top athlete, and I’m fucking miserable.” He presses his palm to Castiel’s chest above his heart. “You drive a piece of shit Jeep, live in a shoebox apartment, and work in a music store for minimum wage, but you’re one of the most content people I’ve ever met. Clearly, I’m the one doing something wrong.”

Castiel covers Dean’s hand with his own. “It’s not about right or wrong, Dean. It’s about having the courage to live the life you want.” He takes Dean’s hand and runs it down his right arm. “My mom used to play this song when I was a kid. _Knockin on Heaven’s Door_. It’s about giving up, laying down and letting the dark take you. I thought for a while that’s what I’d end up doing.”

He shifts and draws up his other arm so Dean can see the notes curling around his wrist and up his forearm. “This one is _Blitzkrieg Bop_. I met Ash, and then Meg, and there were all these doors opening. It’s about rushing full force ahead, taking what you want, and leaving no prisoners.” Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s forehead and buries his nose in Dean’s hair for a moment. “I had to decide. Lay down or fight. I chose to fight, but these remind me. It was always a choice.”

Dean traces the pattern across Castiel’s chest. After a moment he says, “I don’t want to lay down.”

“Then you fight.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Dean looks out the window, shielding his eyes against the sun glinting off the pool. Staying at his grandparent’s estate outside Lawrence for the last week has been weird. When Charlie returned from Santa Clara and found out what had happened, she’d insisted on joining him there. A long, tear-filled conversation finally convinced her to go back to the house in the city. She still needed to train with John, and Dean didn’t want to do anything to mess up her chances to make the National Team again next year.

Even without Charlie’s company, Dean hasn’t been alone. Castiel stops by every couple of days and Dean travels into town to meet him at the shop in between visits. Deanna and Samuel hadn’t been pleased when Dean showed up on their doorstep in the Mazda even though he wasn’t supposed to be driving. Instead, they gave him free rein to use their driver whenever he wanted to go into town.

At first, Dean holed up in his old childhood bedroom and refused to tell them what was wrong. It didn’t take long for Deanna to figure out he’d had a fight with John. When Castiel showed up the next day, she also assumed she knew what it was about.

On the deck below, two of the Campbell cousins sun beside the pool while a third does laps. The first time Castiel coaxed Dean into the pool, Deanna’s face had lit up. There is still plenty of work to do before he can go under, but being in the water doesn’t fill him with dread. A round of blowjobs in Castiel’s shower went a long way to making him more comfortable with water on his face, too.

The door behind him creaks and Dean turns as his grandmother comes into the room. “I thought your young man might join us today,” she says, walking over to sit on the bed. Her blond hair is pulled back in a bun, and wrinkles radiate from the corners of her eyes, but she’s as beautiful as ever. Dean sees Mary every time she smiles.

“He has work today, but he might stop by for dinner.”

“I want to thank him for the album he brought me. Denny Zeitlin was one of my favorites when I was a girl.” Deanna pats the bedspread beside her and Dean notices she’s holding a DVD case in the other hand. Dean takes a seat beside her and she runs a hand through his hair. He leans into the touch the same way he’s been doing since he was a child.

“You just wanted to see if I could play it,” he says with a laugh. Deanna had been amazed and delighted when he revealed his strange new talent.

“That part didn’t hurt. It was worth getting the piano tuned.” Dean tilts his head to rest on her shoulder and she kisses the top of his head before she continues. “No one has played that thing in years.”

“I thought you played.”

Deanna’s laugh shakes her whole body, jostling him. “Oh no, I never learned. We bought that piano for your mother.”

Dean sits up and turns wide eyes on her. “What? Mom played the piano?”

Deanna gives him a small smile. “Oh yes, for years. Mary started taking lessons when she was little.” She holds up the case. “I thought you might want to see this.”

Dean watches as she goes to the TV in the corner and loads up the DVD, his heart in his throat. She returns to sit next to him on the bed with the remote.

“We had the old films converted a few years ago. This recording is from when Mary was nine or ten.”

Deanna presses play and the sepia-toned image of a young blond girl in a white, frilly dress fills the screen. Dean’s breath catches. Even as a girl, Mary was lovely. She settles at the piano with a flourish and starts to play.

Dean recognizes the music immediately. Erik Satie’s _Gnossienne No. 4_ , the first song that played in his head after the accident. In the past week, Dean and Castiel have spent hours cataloging the music Dean has played, and that was the first song Castiel had added to the list.

The tiny Mary on the screen plays the tune with a fierce intensity. Dean is transfixed. “We thought for sure piano would be it for her. She was amazing, even when she was so young.” Deanna turns to Dean and wipes away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“She’s beautiful.”

Deanna smiles sadly. “Yes.” She sways with the mournful melody before she reverses their positions, laying her head on his shoulder. “Mary poured everything she had into music until she was eleven. She had taken swimming lessons for years, but she had never been very serious. That year the Olympics were held in L. A. and she watched the swimming events like a person possessed.”

Dean turns to brush his cheek against her hair, breathing in her shampoo. The scent hasn’t changed since he was a child. “That’s when it changed?”

“Oh, yes. She marched right up to me and announced that she would win a medal swimming in the Olympics.” Deanna gives a small chuckle. “Mary was a force to be reckoned with once she set her mind on something. Just ask your father.” She pats his leg. “But that’s a story for another day.”

“Did she stop playing the piano?”

“Not completely, but she decided swimming was more important. She never took lessons after that, but she would still play occasionally. Happy or sad, content or disappointed. The piano was how she expressed her emotions.”

Dean’s eyes find the girl on the screen again. He watches the intensity on her face and tries to imagine turning that off.

“The thing is, Dean. She chose. She made the decision. You didn’t.”

“But—”

Deanna lifts her head from his shoulder and pins him with the same intense gaze he just saw on the screen. “No buts. I’m not saying you aren’t a talented swimmer, but when she died, I allowed your father to transfer her dream to you. It wasn’t fair and I’m sorry it took me until now to realize that.”

“I didn’t hate it.”

“Not at first,” she says in a tone that tells him she has known about his conflicts with John all along.

“Your mother was an amazing woman, but you are not a replacement, baby. You are an amazing person, too. And shame on all of us for not celebrating that.”

“Gram, I let it happen.”

“You were just a boy when John started you both down this path, and I turned a blind eye for a long time and told myself it was what you wanted.” She brushes her hand through his hair, letting her thumb trail along his cheekbone, and Dean chases the gentle touch. “I let John convince me to keep these videos from you and Sam because it was so painful to watch them myself. But it’s easy to see how wrong I was. You need to do what makes you happy, the same as she did.”

Dean scoffs. “Dad won’t like hearing that.”

“There are a great many things in the world that aren’t up to your father.”

Dean remembers the business card laying on the nightstand. “I ran into my senior advisor at the college the other day and she offered me a job as her personal assistant on a big anthropology project.”

“And you want to take it.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Deanna winds her arms around him and pulls him in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Then call her and accept.”

Changing his life turns out to be as easy as that. With his mother on the screen in front of him, Dean calls Dr. Moseley and accepts her offer. They arrange a time to meet on campus to discuss the details. After that, he calls his mentor and begins the process of resigning from the National Team. When he hangs up the phone, he expects to feel like a failure, but instead, he feels free.

A series of quick, painless phone calls come next. Castiel is as quietly supportive as he always is, Sam tells him it’s about time, and Charlie lets out a whoop when he breaks the news. She cuts him off when he tries to reassure her that the Campbells will make sure she has a coach if John drops her. “Dean, I was taking care of myself long before I met you. I’m not worried.”

Charlie wants to be there when he tells his dad, but he convinces her it’s for the best if she isn’t. Instead, she warns him when John is on his way home from the pool and makes plans to stay with a friend from her gaming group for the night.

Deanna drops Dean off at the house herself. Unlike Charlie, she doesn’t try to convince him to let her come in. Deanna knows Dean and John well enough to realize this confrontation is something Dean needs to face by himself.

Dean gets everything ready, and then he sits on the bottom step of the wide, winding staircase in the foyer and waits. He doesn’t have to wait for long. When he hears the Impala in the driveway, Dean runs his fingers over the remote in his pocket and takes a deep breath.

John pushes the door open and his eyes settle on Dean, but he doesn’t react. He closes the door behind himself and turns back to face Dean with a scowl. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Dean hates the way John’s flippant words can still hurt him. “Figured you should hear it from me.”

John’s jaw clenches. “You quit.”

“Resigned. But yes, I did.”

John makes a disgusted sound. “Bet your loser boyfriend is real happy you’re stooping to his level.”

Dean stands up and blocks John’s escape into the kitchen. “Castiel has nothing to do with this. We both know I haven’t been happy for years, Dad.”

“Seemed happy enough when you were strutting around in Rio.”

“There were good times. Of course, there were. But I can’t swim anymore, so I need to move on. And so do you.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” John turns to walk into his office, but Dean blocks him there too.

“Don’t do that. Even Jody told you I might not recover quick enough to make the team.”

John steps forward, shoving Dean backwards until he’s pinned against the wall, and slaps his hand on the plaster inches from Dean’s head. Dean flinches. “Didn’t even try,” John growls.

Trying is all Dean has ever done, but his attempts to be the son John wanted, the son Mary would have been proud of, have never been good enough. Frustration wars with his desire to see his plan through. He twists under John’s outstretched arm and spits back, “I did try. I tried, and it killed me that I couldn’t do it.”

John turns again, and it’s obvious he’s looking for another way to escape. The only other exit from the foyer that Dean isn’t blocking is the living room. John stalks into the room and Dean follows. As soon as he crosses the threshold, Dean presses play on the remote and the sharp, mournful sound of Satie fills the room.

John freezes—eyes pinned on the screen—as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. A muscle in his neck twitches as his jaw clenches. An image of Mary fills the flatscreen. Rather than the footage his grandmother first showed him, Dean chose a later video from their collection. Mary sits at the piano looking young, vibrant, and obviously pregnant. A tiny, blond child sits on the bench next to her, eyes rapt as he watches her hands on the keys.

“Where did you get this?” John’s voice is tight, with a tinge of raw pain.

“Grandma gave it to me.”

John’s jaw clenches again and for a moment, Dean worries he will lash out. Dean steps back—ready to duck again—when a muted, twisted sound escapes John’s throat. Dean’s eyes dart back to John’s face as a tear slips down his cheek, and he freezes. He’s never seen his father cry.

“Dad.”

John turns his head, and his eyes are awash with pain. “You used to love listening to her play.”

“I never knew that,” Dean says, wincing at the sharpness in his voice. Tonight is supposed to be about trying to reconcile, but the knowledge that John kept such a huge part of his mom from him is hard to accept.

“There didn’t seem to be any point in talking about it.” John’s eyes trace lovingly over the image on the screen.

Dean looks away from the video to stare incredulously at John. “No point? Dad, I had a right to every memory you could give me, not just her swimming. And Sam, too. We deserved to know her.”

John pulls one hand down over his face and rips his eyes away from the screen to meet Dean’s glare. “It hurt too much to talk about, and it wouldn’t have brought her back.”

“Jesus, Dad,” Dean snaps. “Nothing could bring her back. We all lost her, not just you. That drunk driver took her away, but you kept her memory from us.” The words catch in Dean’s throat, and he drags in a ragged breath.

“If we hadn’t met, she would have won gold; she was that good,” John says, grimacing as if it’s an effort to force out each word. “Instead of wasting her talent as a teacher, she would have been living her dream. There would have been no reason for her to be on that road that night, and she’d still be alive.”

Dean takes a hesitant step forward, but John is looking through him as if he doesn’t see Dean. “Dad.”

“I killed her. I stole her dream, and she died because of it.”

Dean closes the distance between them and grabs John’s shoulders. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. That drunk driver killed her. She loved you, and she loved me and Sammy.” He points at the screen where Mary is smiling at the image of himself. “She was happy. You didn’t steal anything. Mom chose you and me and Sam. That was always her choice to make.”

John’s bloodshot eyes focus on Dean’s face for a moment before he looks past Dean to the screen. “She looks like an angel.”

“Yeah, she does,” Dean agrees, his own throat swelling shut with emotion. “Mom’s an angel now and winning a medal won’t bring her back.”

John’s breath hitches and Dean watches as he visibly struggles to hold himself together. Dean squeezes John’s shoulders. “I miss her, dad. We all do. But I miss you too. I miss having a father instead of only a coach. Sometimes I feel like I lost both of my parents that day. Mom is gone, but me and Sam are still here.”

John buckles. There’s no other word for it. One moment, he’s standing proud and tall, the same strong man Dean has known his whole life. The next he’s crumpling onto the couch, his head in his hands. Dean drops to his knees beside him.

“I didn’t know what else to do. You were so little and Sammy was just a baby. Your mom, she was the strong one. I couldn’t do it alone.”

Dean puts his hand on his father’s knee. “You haven’t been doing it alone. Grandma and pap, Jody, they’ve been there for us. And you did all right, Dad. Look at Sammy, big man on campus now. He’s gonna be a lawyer. And I swear I’m okay. I just can’t swim anymore.”

John raises his head and meets Dean’s gaze with red-rimmed eyes. His expression is bleak, and it’s as if he’s feeling every moment of pain and confusion from the last nineteen years all at once. Dean holds his breath. This isn’t a position he ever thought he’d find himself in and he isn’t sure what to do. As difficult as John can be, the broken man in front of him is more difficult for Dean to face.

The moment stretches between them until, finally, John reaches out and covers Dean’s hand with his own. His voice is raw, and he barely sounds like himself when he says, “I’m sorry, son, for all the ways I wasn’t there for you.”

Dean freezes and looks down at their joined hands, certain he heard his father wrong. John has never uttered anything remotely apologetic before, and Dean finds it hard to accept the sincerity behind the words.

There have been a lot of hard words between them over the years, and Dean has never let himself even imagine something like an apology crossing John’s lips. Dean was always certain it wouldn’t change anything, anyway. Things were too far gone between them. Now that he has the words, though, he finds that it does matter. It changes everything.

John squeezes Dean’s hand tighter, and Dean looks up into his father’s face again. He licks his dry lips and turns his hand over so he can grip back. “You’ve been there, dad,” he says, his voice rough with the effort of holding back tears. “You pushed me and made me believe I could be more than just a kid from Lawrence, Kansas. Now you gotta let me push myself.”

John drags in a deep, rasping breath. “And do what? What do we do now? This is all we know.”

“No, it’s just all we’ve let ourselves have,” Dean says, sitting back on his haunches to give John space to pull himself together. When John looks up, Dean gives him a lopsided grin. “The Olympics aren’t over, anyway. You still got Charlie, and she’s got more potential to be a champion than I ever did. Dr. Moseley, one of my old professors, wants me to work with her at the college. Nothing is ending, Dad. It’s only the beginning.”

John wipes his cheeks on the backs of his hands and grits his teeth. “Guess this means the weirdo from the music shop is sticking around.”

Dean laughs. “Castiel, Dad. His name is Castiel. And yeah, he’s sticking around.”

John pushes himself up from the couch and watches the woman on the screen. Mary has stopped playing and is laughing at the person behind the video camera, her eyes sparkling. John’s voice comes through the speakers. “I love you, Mary Winchester.”

Mary stands and crosses the room, pushing the camera away. In a flash of movement, the video catches her press a kiss to a young John’s lips. “I love you too, John Winchester,” she murmurs.

John steadies himself and pulls himself up to stand tall and proud again before he turns back to Dean. “Well, I guess you better invite him to dinner.”


	15. Epilogue

Dean stops in front of the heavy glass doors and wipes his damp palms on his jeans. He’s been to the Nassau County Aquatic Center a handful of times over the years, but this is his first as a spectator rather than a competitor. The U. S. Open meet is one of the most important of the season, so anyone who is anyone on the circuit is here.

Somewhere inside, Charlie is warming up, and John is probably pacing the deck and snapping directions at her. Part of Dean, the part that misses the adrenaline buzz and the excitement of it all, wishes he was there with them. A much larger part is happy to be supportive from the bleachers.

A middle-aged couple and a little girl come up the sidewalk behind him and Dean shifts to let them pass. He rolls his shoulders and tries to tell himself he shouldn’t be nervous about going in.

“We can just go back to the hotel and test out the whirlpool,” Cas says, bringing one hand up to squeeze the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean leans into the pressure, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders, before turning to face him. This isn’t only his first swim event since the accident; it’s also his first public event with Cas by his side. Sometime in the last three months, Castiel became Cas, and he’d wedged himself into Dean’s life and never left.

Not that Dean has tried all that hard to dislodge him. Things haven’t been perfect, but Dean has been enjoying even the irritating things about being in a relationship. Mostly because he can say that now. They’re in a relationship. Not a one-night-stand, a quick roll in the sheets, and goodbye at the door. Dean can introduce Cas as his _boyfriend_.

Cas drives him to the college and picks him up after his doctor’s appointments because Dean still hasn’t been cleared to drive. He leaves takeout containers in the kitchen that make John scowl and picks up brochures while he’s waiting for Dean outside Dr. Moseley’s office.

Introducing Cas and Dr. Moseley turned out to be one of Dean’s poorer ideas; now they’re both nagging him about the graduate program. Dean hasn’t told them yet, but he’s already filled out the application for the Spring semester. He thinks he’d like to study something about the role of music in American culture.

Cas taps two fingers on Dean’s forehead and gives him a cheeky grin. “You in there, or did I lose you again?”

Dean smiles back. ‘Zoning out’—as Cas calls it—is another side effect of the brain injury Dean is learning to live with. He still gets disoriented or dizzy almost every day, but the panic attacks are down to only one or two a month. And there’s still the music that has become his constant companion.

“I’m here,” Dean says, leaning in to give Cas a quick peck on the lips. He resists the urge to look around and see if anyone saw. “Just thinking. Let’s go in. Sam is already in our seats.”

Cas pulls the door open and holds it so Dean can enter before him. They slot into the crowd and hold up their entrance lanyards when they reach the front of the line. Once they’re through security, Cas reaches for Dean’s hand. Dean tenses, just a flash of discomfort, and Cas yanks his hand away again.

“No,” Dean says, reaching for him. He captures Cas’ hand and winds their fingers together. “I don’t care what they think.”

Cas looks at their joined hands with a sad smile. “Yes, you do.”

Dean shrugs. “Okay, I do. But I shouldn’t. You got on a plane and flew twelve hundred miles so you could be here with me. No one gets to say a word about it.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I am.” Dean grasps his hand tighter and pulls him through the crowd. He sees familiar faces here and there, but no one approaches them. Dean looks up into the crowd on the bleachers and sees Sam waving as if he isn’t noticeable towering over the surrounding people.

They cross along the narrow end of the larger pool and squeeze by the crowds of athletes, coaches, media, and well-wishers gathered there. He doesn’t see Charlie or John, but they’re probably in the back going over John’s last-minute advice on her technique. Dean starts up the bleachers, towing Cas behind him, but he only makes it up a few steps before a voice stops him.

“Yo, Dean, hold up!”

Dean freezes and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the bleachers will open and swallow him. Mackenzie “Mack” Griffen. Of all the old competitors to run into here, it had to be him.

Cas must read the tension in his body because he tries to drop Dean’s hand. Dean won’t let him. He holds on tighter, pulling Cas in so they’re standing pressed together as he turns to face his friend. Maybe it’s for the best. With Mack’s love of gossip, everyone in the swimming world will know everything going on with Dean within minutes of Mack walking away. As effective as doing a press release.

Mack skids to a stop on the concrete step next to them. “Dude, I heard about what happened! Glad you didn’t drown.”

Dean gives Cas a side eye when he snorts, and Cas quickly looks away. “Yeah, me too,” Dean says with a straight face. “That would have sucked.” Mack isn’t the sharpest guy Dean has ever met, but he’s so full of good spirit it’s hard to dislike him.

“I didn’t know you were coming. One of the guys has an in at a club downtown tonight. You should come out with us and round up some ladies.”

Cas chuckles again, and Dean shifts to step on his foot. “I’m here with Cas,” Dean says.

Mack nods rapidly, his short blond hair falling forward over one eye before he slicks it back. “Sure, man, bring him along. Any friend of yours will be a hit with the chicks, right?”

Dean rolls his eyes and lifts their joined hands. “Mack, I’m _here_ with Cas. As in we’re here _together.”_

A series of comical expressions pass over Mack’s face. His brows furrow in confusion before inching toward his hairline as he realizes what Dean is trying to say. “Shit, man,” Mack says, glancing back and forth between Dean and Cas. “Shit. I had no idea. Dude, all those times we picked up chicks together. You’re telling me you never got any of that? What the hell, man?”

This time when Cas chuckles, Dean laughs along. “No worries. I went through an exploratory phase in college.”

Mack’s brows draw together again. “You’re like, what? Bi or something?”

Dean sighs. He’d been so caught up dealing with his dad and the media he hadn’t thought about explaining to his friends. “No, I’m definitely gay. I just wasn’t sure back then, you know? It’s all good though. We had some fun times.”

Mack waggles his eyebrows. “Sure we did.” He glances at Cas with a shrug. “Well, if you guys wanna hang tonight anyway, hit me up. Promise I’ll keep the honeys away from you.” He reaches out and gives Dean a quick, one-armed bro-hug on the side Cas isn’t pressed against, and Dean returns it.

The last thing Dean wants to do is hang out in a club with Mack and his buddies, but he still gives a sharp nod. “Sure, we’ll see. We might have family stuff going on tonight, but I’ll text you if we’re up to it.”

“Awesome.” He looks back toward the pool and grimaces. “Coach Williams is looking for me. Better get my ass down there. Good to see you though. We were all sad when we heard you were hanging up your goggles.”

“Thanks. It happens to all of us eventually,” Dean says, giving him a small wave. “It was good to see you, too. We’ll keep in touch.”

Mack turns and jogs back down the bleachers. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Dean turns to Cas and says, “Everyone who knows anyone in the swimming community will know about us by tomorrow. Hope you’re ready for that kind of notoriety.”

Cas squeezes Dean’s hand again and smirks. “I think I’ll be able to handle it.”

They find Sam a few rows up and slip into their seats just as the announcer calls out the first heat of the day. Sam and Cas met a few weeks ago when Sam came home for the Fourth of July weekend, so at least the awkward introductions were out of the way. In a week, Sam and Dean are driving up to Wyoming for a ten-day camping trip in the Grand Teton National Park. It’s the longest they’ve ever been able to get away. Sam had invited Cas along, but Cas declined. After everything Dean has shared, Cas knows how important this trip with his brother is to Dean.

Dean barely pays attention to the first few events. The phantom music isn’t as loud today, but his legs are antsier than usual. After Dean presses on his thigh for the fourth time to stop it from bouncing, Cas turns his hand over and lays it on Dean’s leg palm up. Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but Cas appears to be engrossed in the women’s 150m freestyle event going on in the pool. Cas’ palm is callused from his drum sticks and hauling equipment, and Dean traces the rough skin with his fingertips for a few moments.

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches up, even though he’s still not acting as if he’s paying attention at all. Dean taps out the rhythm of the music in his head. Every few notes, Cas’ fingers curl upwards like flower petals furling and unfurling in the sun. After a while, Cas hums along with the rhythm, so softly Dean has to strain to hear him. The notes aren’t the same as what Dean hears, but they create a perfect harmony. Later, when they’re alone in the hotel room with the portable keyboard Dean had packed, he’ll recreate the twin melodies and Cas will transcribe the notation.

Not all the songs Dean hears these days are ones he’s heard before. Though they’ve tried, none of the band members can identify some of the melodies Cas transcribes. Eventually, Cas writes lyrics for the unknown ones and turns them into songs for _Seraphim._

They continue their song until Charlie pads across the pool deck and takes her place with the other athletes. Dean scans the far edge of the pool where the coaches have congregated until he finds his father. He almost doesn’t recognize John with his easy grin while he chats with one of the other coaches.

Things aren’t any more perfect there than they are with Cas, but they’re a lot better than they used to be. Rather than being a shell where they rattle around barely interacting, the house has become a gathering point for the extended family.

Dean, John, and Charlie have dinner together once or twice every week, and Dean and John even manage to enjoy a pleasant meal with just the two of them occasionally. Jody has been spending more time at the house, and Cas drops by when he can. Though John clenches his jaw and gives Cas’ tattoos a glare every time he sees him, he hasn’t made any negative comments. In fact, last week, Dean walked into the kitchen to find them arguing over whether John Denver was a country musician. It’s definitely a work in progress.

The starting whistle blares and yanks Dean’s attention back to the pool. The women hit the water simultaneously, but Charlie and the swimmer two lanes to her left come out of the glide a few paces ahead of the field. Dean, Sam, and Cas call her name, cheering along with the crowd. When they turn at the far wall, she and Charlie are still evenly paced with the rest of the field a split second behind them. Halfway back, the other woman seems to tire, and Charlie pulls ahead by a hand’s breadth. When they hit the wall, Dean holds his breath until the scoreboard shows Charlie’s name in the number one spot.

“That’s my girl!” he yells, the words swallowed up by the cavernous room. On the deck, John is throwing a towel around Charlie’s shoulders, hugging her. He’s smiling, an expression Dean has seen more and more in the past few months.

It’s different, sitting in the stands next to Sam with Cas’ hand in his. Dean had worried watching from the bleachers would be devastating. That he would see everything he lost—the dreams he’d chased for so long—and be crushed. Sure, the acrid scent of the chlorine, the shrill blare of the starting whistle, and the murmur of the crowd batter at his senses. There’s an energy in the air Dean will miss. The crowd will never again cheer for him the way they were just cheering for Charlie.

But it’s also not as hard as he was expecting. So he’s a spectator now. Sam was right; it isn’t the end of the world. What he’s gained has more than made up for what he lost.

Cas squeezes his hand and taps the side of his head with two fingers. “You in there? Everything okay?”

Dean squeezes back and smiles. “Yeah, I’m right here. Everything is just fine.”


End file.
